


Harriet and Louise

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Class Differences, Consensual Adultery, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Girl Direction, Happy Ending, Harriet is 17, Historical lesbians, Horseback Riding, Louis Tomlinson Wears Harry Styles's Clothes, Pining, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, and captain Brian Jungwirth, at least in my view, balls, draw me like your french girls, jane austen novels in a blender, jane austen stuff, lavender marriage, lesbian jane austen vibes, letter writing, mentions of like eleanor and danielle, regency au, so many buttons but no underwear, that's a tag, tiny buttons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: There’s nothing Harriet can do to alter the world, but she can make Louise laugh.A regency-era girl direction AU
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 94
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! Three years in the making. The lesbian Jane Austen novel about Harriet and Louise you all have been waiting for. Thank you Anna for making it happen! And thank you Jen for being my faithful brit-picker!
> 
> This is four chapters total. Will be posting one chapter each Friday in April. Enjoy!

Every year, it’s the same. Louise is one of the most sought-after girls at the ball, until halfway through the night, when people begin to realise how loud she is.

Harriet loves how loud she is. She loves when she clumsily climbs up the brick wall and tumbles into Harriet’s room in the middle of the night, waking up the entire household as she trips over the windowsill, every time. She loves the way Louise will read aloud passages from the books in Harriet’s father’s library, slipping into an affected brash, obnoxious, _manly_ voice when she comes across an excerpt that she finds particularly insulting to the female sex. She loves when Louise drinks too much punch at every ball and giggles so high and bright that the entire room turns their heads to look at her, falling in love with her as she snorts into her drink, her bright blue eyes reflecting the chandelier light between the laugh-filled crinkles of her eyelids, her throat bobbing in a way that draws the eye down to the soft padding over her bony sternum, where her chest heaves with every laboured breath, where sweat sometimes beads and slivers down, down, on summer days when she and Harriet lie in the grass to read. All the _gentlemen_ in the room turn their heads, falling in love with her.

Though something seems to happen when the gentlemen get their turn at being the one whose ear Louise is giggling into. Perhaps it’s the cleverly veiled insults, or the mysterious literary quotes, or the fact that they can’t decide whether _they_ are the subject of her laughter. Whatever it is, Harriet cannot understand why it has the effect of making the gentlemen _less_ interested in her friend. Some of her own fondest memories happen to be of Louise teasing and pinching her, or correcting her incorrigibly poor dancing, or speaking Shakespeare to her when she _knows_ that Harriet is too simple—or at least too _flustered_ with Louise touching her with a finger dipped into the back of her dress—to understand. Harriet cannot help but think less of these gentlemen for letting insecurity prevent them from appreciating the jewel that is her best friend.

“I simply cannot abide by every gentleman in this room ignoring _you_ ,” Louise announces, once she has lost the attention of her most recent ex-admirer and joins Harriet in a quiet corner of the hall. Louise reaches up with twined fingers and pulls on one of Harriet’s carefully arranged ringlets, sending it bouncing. “You are the loveliest creature in this room.”

“No, m’not,” Harriet mumbles, her refined manners going slack under the sole attention of her friend. Her face feels warm from how Louise looks skeptically up at her from beneath her soft chestnut fringe. Her stomach ties itself in knots over the way Louise’s two longest fingers cradle together to pull that same ringlet again. Harriet loves having Louise’s attention like this. Louise knows it, too.

“Oh, yes, you are. Just look at your perfectly shiny curls, cascading so perfectly from your perfect braids. And your unnaturally full lips,” she continues, pressing a thumb to Harriet’s cheek and making her mouth run dry. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what _do_ you do to them, to make them so pretty and plump? Is it your incessant biting that makes them perch just so above that adorable chin? Really, if there is a gentleman in this room who hasn’t thought of kissing your lips, he should be shipped off to an asylum.”

Harriet clears her throat and manages to smirk. “You think every man should be shipped off to an asylum.”

Louise scoffs. Her eyes shift to the side and her jaw clenches, making the hollows beneath her sharp cheekbones flutter beautifully. “Well,” she counters, looking up once again to flash Harriet a brilliant smile. “That’s because no man has asked for your hand yet. Something is obviously wrong with the lot of them.”

“Then I am content with them remaining that way,” Harriet says before she can stop herself. She gasps when she realises what she has said, and Louise’s eyes flash bright and wounded, a storm of hurt that’s swiftly washed away by a calm breeze of reassurance. Harriet hates herself every time she forgets this great difference between them. She, with the stability of a dear elder brother to care for her indefinitely, has the freedom to postpone marriage until it magically becomes an agreeable concept. Louise, the eldest in a line of _only_ sisters, _must_ marry. Though she may share Harriet’s distaste for all the fuss and flurry over luring a husband, if she fails to lure one before her father dies, then she, her mother, _and_ her sisters will have nothing: no guaranteed income, no land, no prospect.

“Lou, I’m sorry,” Harriet whispers, even though she can already see that Louise has forgiven her insensitivity, as always. It doesn’t make Harriet feel any less like a horrible friend.

“Please, don’t be,” Louise says, voice quiet. Harriet reaches out, tracing the backs of her fingers over the soft white muslin capping Louise’s shoulder. “I’m…I would be happy, truly happy, if you never married, Harry.”

Harriet frowns, studying the seam of Louise’s sleeve, her fingers idly itching to stitch the poorly made thing better. What Louise is saying is sweet, but it’s only to make Harriet feel better. It doesn’t solve anything.

“I wish you were my sister.”

“I know,” Louise replies, voice heavy with patience. Perhaps she’s tired of Harriet saying it so often, tired of Harriet wishing for things that can’t be. “We could grow old together, doing our needlework side by side,” she says, almost a recitation. Perhaps Harriet can be a bit repetitive.

“And spend every ball ranking the gowns from prettiest to ugliest, just like we used to,” Harriet adds, remembering simpler times when events such as this passed with the two of them pressed close together instead of dancing with men twice their age.

“I’ve got it!” Louise removes Harriet’s hand from her gown, holds it between her cool palms. 

The attention may make Harriet’s stomach flutter, but she is sixteen years of age, and she has been Louise’s friend for seven of those years. She knows when Louise is being facetious. She knows the false enthusiasm that smooths out the naturally furrowed pale skin of her brow. “Got what, my hand?” Harriet mocks.

“Don’t be silly, that’s not legal,” Louise says, not slowing down to allow Harriet to understand what she even means by that. It’s perfectly legal to hold someone’s hand, but Louise presses on. “I’m going to dance with Liam.”

Harriet rolls her eyes, completely unsurprised. Louise jokes about marrying her brother at least once a week. “Oh, really?”

Louise drops Harriet’s hand and takes some steps backward, always moving like she’s in a dance, only with Harriet as her partner. “Yes, really,” she whispers, loudly. “I’m going to woo him with all my feminine charms.”

Harriet remembers a time some years ago when her brother Liam was wrestled into the drawing room floor, pinned there until he apologised for saying that Harriet’s singing voice sounded like a man’s, courtesy of Louise Tomlinson. His appreciation for Louise’s feminine charms hasn’t progressed much since then. He even calls her Louis, sometimes. But then again, Louise has been known to call him Josephine on occasion.

Resigned to Louise and Liam’s romance being a joke (yet strangely content with that fate in a way that she’s not clever enough to understand), Harriet leans on her wall and smiles as she watches her brother dancing with the person she loves most in the world. She smiles wider when Louise’s laugh fills the room as she snorts in Liam’s ear. Harriet loves how loud she is.

~~~

Harriet loves how quiet Louise is. There are few things that bring her heart so much joy as the soft, breathy voice Louise sings with on the days when she asks to practice on Harriet’s pianoforte. It’s all the more precious for how close Harriet must sit in order to hear it at all. Side by side, they practice songs, taking turns or harmonising. Even though she grew up without a pianoforte, Louise has more skill with it, sometimes placing her hand over Harriet’s to push her fingers onto the correct keys. 

Harriet doesn’t know what to do on days like today, when Louise is so quiet, so pensive, so _sad_ , not interested in doing anything but singing melancholy songs. Harriet keeps missing notes, and Louise doesn’t even lift a finger to correct her. She tries not to take it personally, but it’s hard when Louise won’t even _talk_ to her about what’s wrong.

If only she knew more about men, perhaps she could help Louise feel better. As it is, she hardly understands them at all. She has received little attention from them herself; even though her seventeenth birthday is next month, her body still looks like that of a child. _They’re perfectly adorable,_ Louise had protested a few weeks ago, her hands cupped to either side of Harriet’s frozen, unbreathing chest. _Look, they fit right in my hands. How could they be more lovely?_

“Are you feeling fatigued from the ball last night?” is Harriet’s first attempt at the subject. “You were in such high demand with the young men. I believe you were asked for nearly every dance.” She manages to make her voice sound excited, masking the tinge of bitterness she feels about having spent so little time with her friend at the ball.

Louise sighs her way down from the high note she was singing, her deft fingers continuing to play. “Indeed, it is exhausting to converse with so many _different_ gentlemen when not one of them requests a second or third dance.” She pauses, goes back a measure, and repeats the same passage, her fingers like hammers, unforgiving as she tries and tries again to make the notes come out perfectly. Harriet can’t hear the mistake in the first place. “As soon as they hear me talk, they suddenly recall how small my fortune is.”

Equally relieved that her friend is talking to her as she is nervous to handle the subject matter delicately, Harriet chooses to place a silent, comforting hand on Louise’s back, low where her muscles are warm through her clothes and shift with every motion. Only then does she feel brave enough to speak. “There were plenty who didn’t get a chance to dance with you at all. You were in such high demand, perhaps the right man stood by and watched you all night without the opportunity to ask you once, let alone twice.”

Louise’s hands abandon the keys abruptly. “Not a single repeated partner, Harry. Not _one_.”

A small flutter in Harriet’s throat encourages her to take Louise’s frustration personally, but she swallows it down. She knows that Louise’s true enemies are the stress of her family’s financial uncertainty and the horrific necessity of marrying a man whose company she will certainly loathe. Louise is not frustrated at Harriet’s company; she is frustrated that anything _besides_ Harriet’s company must exist at all.

With this bold thought burning strong in her heart, Harriet stands, extending her hand downward in offering. Louise looks up, her eyes watery and her chin trembling slightly, and Harriet smiles, bright with the certainty that she can rise to this occasion. She _can_ make Louise feel better.

“Would you be so kind as to do me the honour,” Harriet says, lowering her already bizarrely low voice. She bows, gambling on the hope that making Louise laugh will overpower the fact that she is, once again, making a joke of something that is in reality a truly upsetting situation. There’s nothing Harriet can do to alter the world, but she can make Louise laugh.

She smiles, at least, sliding her left hand into Harriet’s whilst wiping her eye with her right. Together, they shuffle out from between the bench and the pianoforte. Once they’re in the centre of the drawing room, Harriet sharply pulls on Louise’s hand until their bodies are pressed close.

 _Then_ Louise laughs, and Harriet beams, noticing that she’s breathing in when Louise exhales, as though to taste her laughter as well as see and hear it.

Encouraged, Harriet starts leading them into some semblance of a waltz-like twirl, fighting back laughter herself as she nearly trips over her own feet, then Louise’s, then the settee's.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Louise asks, gracefully bearing Harriet’s weight when she nearly tips them both over.

“It has,” Harriet hums, ecstatic to be dancing with Louise again but simultaneously stricken by a feeling of loss, realising that years have passed since the last time they practiced together. By the time they stopped so long ago, Louise had surpassed her unofficial tutor’s skill; the last several times they had danced together, Louise had been leading, in order for Harriet to better practice the half of the dance she would be performing at her first ball. So much of their youth had been comprised of Harriet passing what she learned from her governess on to Louise, who had no governess but who had always been so bright that she ended up instructing Harriet on the very subjects Harriet introduced to her. “I missed this.”

“Missed tripping your lady onto the floor?” Louise teases, though no one has fallen to the floor yet, thanks to Louise’s exceptional balance.

“Missed you,” Harriet clarifies, descending into giggles when Louise breaks away to do the fancy footwork of Harriet’s least favourite country dance. She tries to keep up with her partner, but it truly is her least favourite for a reason.

Louise jumps from dance to dance, picking out the silliest steps and most difficult jumping sequences, generally obliterating the illusion that Harriet is leading.

“Alright, alright, Lou,” Harriet sighs, once she’s out of breath from the exertion and the laughter. Louise slows to a stop, and Harriet grabs her by the arms and guides her to sit on the nearest armchair.

“I was just getting started,” Louise complains mockingly, but her chest is heaving, too. Harriet watches the swell of it pressing up into her loose dress, studies the soft gleam of sweat amongst the golden dusting of downy hair just above it.

“Shh,” Harriet whispers, her finger to her lips. She waits for Louise to sit still, just so it’s quiet enough to bow again and ask, “If I may be so bold, might I ask you to join me for a second dance? And, if it’s not too peculiar, a third?”

Louise’s smile looks sweet as sugar, her thin red lips crooked and parted in the kind of delight that looks like an invitation to join in on it.

“Very peculiar, indeed,” Louise says in her raspy voice. She takes Harriet’s hand and draws their bodies close together once again. “But not unwelcome.”

Before Harriet even finishes bracing herself for Louise to send her spinning into some intricate footwork, Louise does just the opposite, sort of collapsing forward into an embrace. Harriet stills, letting Louise’s forehead nestle into the crook of her neck, taking on the burden of Louise’s body weight eagerly. Once Louise exhales, the warmth of her breath grazing across Harriet’s throat, reminding her to breathe, Harriet starts swaying slowly. They dance like this, without moving their feet. Harriet thrills at being trusted to hold her friend, to support the girl who so often supports _her_. She wants to have Louise like this always, warm and soft, close and safe, trusted and trusting. She wants to spend every day making Louise feel better.

“Louise,” she says, more of a vibration than a word. Louise sighs against her neck, and Harriet draws her in closer, tightening her arms around the perfect slot of Louise’s tucked waist. She can’t remember being so much taller than Louise before. Keeping their hips together, Harriet coaxes Louise’s head back so that their eyes can meet, so that Harriet can gauge just how much she has to look down in order to look her in the eye. Once Louise blinks up at her, Harriet finishes her request. “Sleep here, tonight.”

Louise stops blinking. She peers thoughtfully into Harriet’s eyes, then her gaze drops briefly to her mouth, as though waiting for her to say something more. But it’s a simple request and not an unusual one. Louise sleeps in her bed nearly every night that she can get away from her household responsibilities, and she is usually excited to do so, so the uncertainty of her gaze and apparent hesitation has Harriet sputtering for a convincing argument, other than _because I want you to_. “I want you to,” is what Harriet ends up saying.

“Yes, of course,” Louise murmurs, her voice as quiet as when she sings.

“Ladies,” booms Harriet’s brother’s voice from the doorway. Harriet startles less at Liam’s intrusion and more at Louise’s sudden attempt to lurch free of her arms, but Harriet holds fast, confused. Surely Louise knows that Liam wouldn’t reprimand them for misusing the hour set aside for music study. Louise’s eyes are downcast, impossible to read aside from the lovely flutter of her lashes. Harriet releases her hold, allowing Louise to return to the pianoforte as Liam holds the door open for Martha, who carries in the tea. “I trust you both slept well after last night’s activities.”

“I slept very poorly, in fact,” Louise announces, flipping through pages of music. She turns her head just enough to show a pointed smirk. Apparently she has quickly recovered from whatever fright came over her before. “I found _none_ of my dance partners stimulating enough in intellect _or_ athleticism to exhaust me.”

Harriet snickers at her brother, who by now is well used to having Louise turn every friendly inquiry into an equally friendly insult at his expense. “Liam, how dare you bore my dearest friend? To think you could so rudely interfere with her sleep.”

Liam takes a seat and a cup of tea, ignoring Harriet’s comments. “I thought that Lawton fellow looked quite lively. And that Welsh gentleman, was he not the most agile man you’d ever seen?”

“Who?” Harriet and Louise ask simultaneously, before dissolving into more laughter. Harriet sits beside her brother, her attention split between his rendition of the night’s events and the elegant curve of Louise’s neck as she plays.

~~~

When Harriet slides under her covers that night, she lies on her side and waits for Louise to curl up behind her and bend their bodies into the same curved shape, just as she always does.

Only tonight, she doesn’t. Harriet can feel her presence just a scant few inches behind her, but their bodies do not touch, and her own body remains in an awkward straight line with no curve to mold to.

The absence—no, the presence, or rather, whatever this buzzing feeling is that is both and neither—has Harriet’s mind reeling. They’re not touching, yet she can imagine every inch of Louise’s form, remembers the specific imprint of it against her back so easily. She can conjure the swollen heat of her breasts, the comfort of her soft stomach, the cross of her ankle between Harriet’s, the warm cradle of her wide hips. Harriet _knows_ these things, knows them as she knows her own body, or perhaps even better. The strain of imagining what is only inches away, as well as the confusion between her own body and her memory of Louise’s, has her thinking of the first times she touched herself, in this bed, several years ago, around the time when Louise started _turning into a woman_ , or so Harriet’s mother had quietly said. To Harriet, it was a revelation, a sudden understanding about this place beneath her sparse, coarse hairs, the only purpose for which had something to do with producing heirs. Whilst she vaguely understood the mechanics of how such things happened, she could never imagine what would _compel_ a man to want to touch there in the first place, not until Louise’s thirteenth year and Harriet’s eleventh. When Louise’s body started changing, Harriet could imagine what it would be like to _be_ a woman and to have a man want to kiss the hollow between your collarbones and smell your hair and touch every part of you. She could believe that someone would want to do those things to her, once her body began to look like the one that curled up next to her to sleep on nights when the storms kept Louise from returning home. And so on many _other_ nights of that year, when Harriet was alone, she would imagine a man smelling her hair, which would someday smell like Louise’s hair, this same faceless man kissing her bosom, which would someday swell like Louise’s bosom, and she would touch herself the way a man might touch her when she became a woman, like Louise.

It has been years since Harriet faced these particular memories, having long since passed the point of needing an intellectual justification to bring herself pleasure. Remembering all this, her face is burning a hole into her pillow, hot either with shame or with the friction of her speeding, spinning thoughts.

In a sudden moment of clarity that she knows will be brief, she determines that the reason her mind is upset is because Louise is so far away. Therefore, the best way to put her mind at ease is to have Louise closer and to act upon this clarity immediately, before it fades.

She slides backwards, threading her body between the sheets until her back is pressed against Louise’s front, as it should be. Instantly, she calms down, the sweat prickling under her night dress as it cools. Louise lets out a shaky sigh, and Harriet can taste her breath gusting across her face. The muscles in her eyes stop twitching under their lids, and she feels sleep coming for her at last.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Lou?” Harriet asks happily, squirming deeper into her comfortable nest between Louise’s hips and the heavy blankets.

“Will you…turn ‘round?”

Harriet obliges, pouting only a little. “What is it?”

There’s no moon tonight. The darkness is as oppressive as the silence between them. Harriet can feel Louise’s breaths, and hear them, but that is all, until finally, Louise whispers, “Do you find me…do you think I’m…handsome?”

Harriet’s heart breaks for her friend. Louise spends so much time complimenting _her_ , and it feels so good to receive her flattery—has Harriet been falsely assuming that Louise is so _obviously_ beautiful that she _must_ feel confident in it? “Are you mad?” Harriet whispers. She crawls up onto her elbows, to crowd over Louise and therefore make her believe the words she’s about to say. “You’re the handsomest girl in the whole kingdom.” She strains to see a glint of eye in the darkness but finds nothing, so she lowers herself until she can feel Louise’s breaths on her lips, so she knows for a fact that they are face to face. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

She can’t be half as good at compliments as Louise is, for instead of coy giggling, all she hears is a sniffle. Then a quiet, “Do you ever want to kiss me?”

The obvious answer to this is, “All the time,” which Harriet rushes out so sincerely that it burns her throat along the way. She can’t see, but she can guess where Louise’s forehead is, so she lowers her lips to press a kiss there and then one to her temple. She loves the smoothness of Louise’s skin under her mouth, always has. She kisses Louise’s unmoving cheek and then inches over to kiss her dry, parted lips, which suck slightly as Harriet pulls back, creating a plush cushion she longs to press into.

Silence, again, as Harriet thinks quickly: thinks of wanting to kiss Louise’s lips again, longer, more; thinks of things that men do with women that Harriet only understands through glimpses like this; thinks of how she can get her again, longer, more.

Her breath comes out almost a laugh because her heart is racing so fast as she lowers herself down enough to feel Louise’s chest trembling against her own, and she asks, “Do you ever think about what it would feel like, to kiss a man?”

And Harriet lowers her face, bringing it so close that it must _obviously_ be an offering, for practice, for taking, for whatever Louise wants.

But Louise’s breath is no longer on her lips; she can feel it on her arm, as though Louise has turned her head away. Harriet could strike herself, she’s such an idiotic child, too sleepy to keep herself from saying insensitive things in her blind ambition to get more kisses. _Of course,_ Louise has thought about such things; her whole future depends on it.

“No, I never do,” Louise says curtly, something cold in her voice that must be sarcasm, though it’s so much colder than her usual sarcasm.

Feeling as though she has done something awful and unforgivable, Harriet pulls away and lies on her side behind Louise. After an extended moment of silence, Louise turns completely away, her breath lost to the other side of the room. Wounded like a child who touched a butterfly without knowing that it would die before her eyes, Harriet wants nothing more than to be held and told that she has done no wrong.

Once Louise’s breaths have evened out, Harriet shuffles up behind her, just close enough to rest her brow between Louise’s shoulder blades, to lay an arm across the dip of her waist. “Is this all right?” she asks, half-hoping either that Louise is asleep or that her voice is too quiet to hear. Whether or not either of those is the case, she receives no reply, and so, she falls asleep holding onto her friend like something she never wants to lose.

~~~

At dawn, she wakes with the familiar warmth of Louise’s body pressed behind her again, and the tumble of her breath close enough to taste. Harriet’s eyes are dry and itchy, as though she recently cried, but she doesn’t remember a single tear falling, despite her wretched mistakes the night prior.

Louise may have forgiven her in her sleep, but Harriet wants to apologise to the conscious version of her as well. She creeps out of bed, quietly slips on some clothes, and sneaks down to the kitchen to help their cook prepare Louise’s favourite food. Perhaps teacakes first thing in the morning aren’t the best idea, but she knows they’ll put a smile on Louise’s face.

The sun doesn’t burn through the clouds until the moment Louise spots the treats Harriet made for her at the table, and her beautiful smile shines through her weary expression.

Still, Louise spends the entire morning in a melancholy state. The Louise that Harriet is accustomed to would be touching her, dragging her by the hand from room to room, tickling her when she says something dull, re-braiding her hair, and shouting about something or other by noon. But Harriet hasn’t seen that Louise in days.

She hopes it’s merely an intensified period of distress about the marriage situation, brought about by the ball, and that the melancholy will fade alongside the aches in her dancing feet. It must be so, for Harriet _must_ have her Louise back. She didn’t realise how much she depends on having Louise’s attention until now, when its presence is less than constant. She has Louise’s company, but she wants more than that.

A chill wind sets in sometime after noon. Harriet’s parents plead for Louise not to ride home in the cold, so she and Harriet sit as close to the fireplace as possible without sacrificing their books to the flames. Louise reads a novel, and Harriet attempts to finish a drawing of her horse that she started several days ago, before the ball, before everything changed. She sees the world differently now. It’s impossible to finish the shadows in the way she began them last week. She keeps glancing down at Louise, who is lying by the fireside, spread out beneath Harriet’s feet. Traces of her features keep appearing in the horse’s mane, or so it appears in the grey, wintry light. A log in the fireplace splits and falls, sending embers everywhere and changing the lighting in the room entirely. Harriet takes it as a cue to abandon this particular drawing.

After a sketched outline of Louise’s form, she finds herself pouring extensive detail into the lower end of the drawing. Louise’s shoes have been kicked off (the better to warm her perpetually cold toes on the hearth), leaving her strong, square feet on display. It’s not the feet themselves that alter Harriet’s focus, but the way that, by contrast, their squareness emphasises the delicate taper of her ankles. Her pencil catalogues every bone, every tendon, in each of her crossed ankles—one arched, the other flexed into an angle. She pauses only to pull on her lower lip in thought, looking over her drawing to make sure she hasn’t missed any crucial shadows.

Her sketching takes her up the generous curves of Louise’s calves, strong from a lifetime of walking, riding, and chasing her sisters around. Harriet can just barely see the fine hairs that dust the skin; perhaps she wouldn’t notice them at all, if she weren’t so familiar with the brush of them against her own.

Louise must move slightly the next time Harriet looks down at the page because when she looks back up again, Louise’s petticoat has risen high enough to expose the dip just below her knee, so Harriet finishes her lines all the way up to that border. She finds herself tempted to extend the detail up to Louise’s broad thighs, blushing when she recalls the handful of times she has seen her friend in a chemise short enough to allow for such detailed knowledge.

She draws the folds of material as they lay out in front of her instead, skimming over the vague shapes until she reaches Louise’s sternum. Her pencil is woefully inadequate at capturing the softness she sees there. She licks her lip and moves on to the bones in the hollow of her shoulder: the clavicle, the ribs just beneath it, flickering in the firelight in a way that looks like a heartbeat. Hoping to draw the sweeping curve connecting shoulder to neck, she casts a glance up to Louise’s jaw.

Louise is looking directly at her.

Harriet freezes, guiltily meeting her piercing gaze. She has been working under the assumption that Louise was reading, but now she sees that the book is flat on its back, its pages fanning out indiscriminately. One arm is propped so as to hold up her head and the other lies languidly along her side, her fingers curled around a fistful of her skirt. Harriet has no idea how long Louise has been studying _her_ as _she_ studied _Louise_.

But however long it has been, she hasn’t voiced a complaint in that time. And the look in her eye right now isn’t _quite_ reproachful. After all, why should Harriet feel guilty simply for drawing a portrait of her friend? She’s drawn dozens of portraits of Louise over the years, and none of the others ever felt like something she was _getting away with_.

With her focus now fully on Louise’s face, she attempts to capture the peculiar expression: an _open_ look, though somehow almost _falsely_ open; the tense, careful set of her mouth, vulnerably parted but backed by a jaw clenched in displeasure of some kind. Harriet shapes the arches of her uneven brows. A week ago, Louise would be teasing her relentlessly for focussing so intently that she failed to notice that she was being watched. Now, there is a silent challenge in her icy blue eyes, as though she _knows_ what Harriet is thinking.

But what _is_ Harriet thinking? Nothing out of the ordinary, she is certain. The same things she was thinking a week ago, surely. The only difference is that today, Louise is paying her less attention, and Harriet is desperately aware of wanting that attention back.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” exclaims Harriet’s mother. Louise startles, her fist unclenching in her dress, the slackened material sliding down to cover her knee. Harriet pivots in her seat to look at where her mother is frantically removing stitches from her embroidery by the window. She hasn’t lifted her head from her needlework for so much as a glance; clearly, she has forgotten the girls’ presence almost as surely as they had forgotten hers.

Aside from that loosened fist, Louise hasn’t moved, but there’s a new flush, bright pink in colour, on her cheeks. The ice of her eyes has thawed to the shade of a lake in sunlight, and the bite in her jaw has turned into a kind of grinding, her lips sliding together as an afterthought.

Harriet feels a trickle of wetness down the back of her thigh that makes her bolt upright. She excuses herself with a promise to return promptly and flees from the room, hoping that she hasn’t bled noticeably through her clothes. She frowns to herself, struggling for breath as she runs up the staircase. It’s a week too early, and it’s strange because she hasn’t noticed any stomach pains. However, it would be a relief to know that Louise’s odd behaviour could all be an invention of her oversensitive imagination, which she tends to lose control of when the bleeding is about to start.

She closes herself in her room and pulls up her skirts, grateful that she isn’t wearing her drawers today, then she creates room enough to swipe her hand through the mess on her leg. But when Harriet brings her hand up to the light, the wet smear across her fingers is clear, not pink.

A sense of dread fills her chest, more profound than her previous fear of Louise catching sight of a blood stain. She reaches between her legs, higher this time, delving into the source—and her whole body shudders, her legs nearly giving out from under her. The touch feels _good_ , like when she slides her fingers inside in the dark on those nights when Louise _isn’t_ sleeping beside her. The slick feels familiar, too: not blood, but the wetness that pools under her hand when she rubs herself just so.

Hot-faced, Harriet brings her hand up to the light once again. Her fingers remain unstained, except from that unique shine. Once more, she reaches, hoping to wipe away the rest of the mess, but she chokes on her own breath when her fingers graze over her swollen flesh and the image that flashes into her mind is of Louise’s clenching jaw.

More confused than she has ever been in her life, Harriet lets herself drop to the floor. Yet the gravity of her conclusion provides its own kind of clarity. She _must_ tell Louise. Everything can go back to normal, once Louise knows. Harriet will explain everything. The reason she asked whether Louise thought about kissing boys was because Harriet was, for whatever mysterious reason, hoping it would make Louise want to practice kissing _her._ The reason she keeps accidentally saying insensitive remarks about Louise’s marriage prospects is because some confused part of her wants Louise never to marry so that she can forever belong to _Harriet_. The reason _everything_ feels so strange between them these past few days—it’s because of _Harriet_. Not Louise. And if Harriet can just prove that she _knows_ that she has been the unreasonable one, then Louise can forgive her, and they can pretend that the last week never happened.

She smears her hand clean across the inner length of her thigh and arranges her dress to hang evenly. She’ll tell Louise everything, and the world will go back to the way it was.

~~~

The first thing Harriet notices when she re-enters the drawing room is that Louise’s feet are no longer bare.

“Harriet, Harriet!” Harriet struggles to keep her heart from beating out of control as Louise strides purposefully across the room at an assaulting pace, directly toward her, for completely unknown reasons. Harriet’s former conviction to be forthright with her friend dissolves under Louise’s wide smile. She can’t even remember what she had decided was so important, happily stupefied by the illusion of Louise’s enthusiastic, unbridled affection. “I’ve just received the _best_ news!”

Harriet feels her own smile taking over her entire face, so happy she is for Louise, even though she hasn’t the slightest idea what the news could be. She leans back against the door frame so that she can look up at Louise as she takes a final step to stand between Harriet’s splayed feet. Perhaps they can kiss in excitement. Harriet remembers the suction of Louise’s lips last night, and the entire weight of her smile drops down below her stomach, leaving her floating.

Louise doesn’t kiss her. Still smiling, she rolls her eyes dramatically, most likely impatient with how Harriet continues to grin dumbly at her without asking what the good news is. “The Cordens have invited me to join them in Bath!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Harriet exclaims, bursting from her skin with how thrilled she is. Her mind floods with memories of their shared trip last season: Louise leading her by the hand around the assembly rooms, introducing Harriet to new acquaintances as though she were her most beloved sister, attentively fixing her hair every morning, and generally making her feel like the most important person in all the hustle and bustle of lords and ladies.

“Isn’t it?” Louise’s voice gets so reedy with excitement that she very nearly squeaks like a mouse. Her eyes are filled with so much joy, and seeing it there makes Harriet feel happier than words can express. “It’s just what I need, a bit of fresh air.”

Harriet reaches to wrap her hands around Louise’s elbows, feels Louise’s arms curling to mirror the hold on Harriet’s. Harriet’s hand is sticky, but it’s a fleeting thought as she asks, “When do we leave?”

Louise’s smile falters ever so slightly, and Harriet’s heart automatically falls.

“Harriet,” says her mother from the window. “You will stay here.”

Refusing to let this mild setback completely ruin her happiness, Harriet presses on. “But surely the Cordens would extend their invitation…”

She trails off, looking to Louise for guidance. With a shrug, Louise meekly offers, “I haven’t had the opportunity to ask. The message was only just sent over from my father, whom the Cordens visited this morning.”

Harriet turns her head to look expectantly at her mother, who lifts her eyes from her needlework only to shake her head disdainfully at her daughter. “It is not a matter of invitation, even if you were presumptuous enough to ask for one. Have you so readily forgotten that your cousin is arriving the week after next?”

The injustice begins to burn behind Harriet’s eyes. A cousin eight years of age is hardly as vitally important as a chance to make a second appearance in Bath. Honestly, she believes her own _parents_ sometimes forget that she is of marrying age. The Cordens, she thinks miserably, would never treat her so poorly; Lord James is notoriously generous, always performing acts of charity, bringing girls like Louise to Bath, and charitably extending invitations to those girls’ best friends, when asked.

Harriet tightens her grip on Louise’s arms. “How long will you be gone?” she asks, not daring to hope for any particular answer, even a reply of _one week_ would sink her heart.

“I…,” Louise looks uncertain in her smile. Harriet feels guilty for ruining her beautifully high spirits, so she tries to smile at least half as much as Louise can. “I don’t know, really.”

Harriet refrains from pointing out that Louise will surely miss her birthday. She looks into Louise’s wavering eyes until that smile overtakes her face once again, crooked and demure, but happy. Content, Harriet dips her brow to rest on Louise’s. “I shall expect a letter every day—no, _twice_ a day,” Harriet murmurs lightly into the warm space between them..

Louise pulls away, as though too excited to stand still. “No need to cry yet, _Harold_ ,” she teases through her smirk. “We won’t be leaving for another five days.” Harriet wants to cry only out of joy, watching Louise begin to flit about the room, loudly introducing herself to the furniture and making curtsies to the fireplace. _Her_ Louise is _returned_. If there’s a whisper of a question in Harriet’s mind as to whether her own _absence_ from the impending trip is related to Louise’s easy joy, it is irrelevant. Why should Harriet question _anything_ when here, dancing before her eyes, is what she wants most: Louise, happy, carefree, and making silly faces at Harriet every ten seconds?

Harriet claps her hands as Louise rounds the corner of the settee. She thinks briefly of her earlier resolve to tell Louise about _something_ , though whatever it was, it was surely only a means to the end of having Louise jumping about the drawing room like a girl at her first ball.

The particular _something_ doesn’t enter her mind again until she lies alone in her bed that night. She inhales from the pillow that Louise must have slept on the night prior, and her friend’s scent—be it her hair, sweat, breath, or some combination impossible not to recognise as _Louise_ —intoxicates Harriet with comfort and burning warmth. The sensation is familiar, as Louise rests her head on Harriet’s pillows often enough to render her scent _comforting_ rather than _disorientating._ However, now Harriet’s awareness is altered. Now, she _knows_ that the reactions Louise incites from her are not as simple as she once thought. Now, she spends a moment taking stock and recognises that the burning warmth she regularly feels is centered low in her stomach and spreads down her thighs like an ache. She wonders how she never noticed before.

Most of all, she is filled with remorse for being distracted from her enthusiastic support for her friend’s happy prospects. How selfish it is, to crave Louise’s continually renewed scent in her bed instead of spending all her hope, craving, and longing on the object of _Louise’s_ hope, craving, and longing: Bath and all its social riches.

Harriet falls asleep cursing this excessive desire for closeness, which has done nothing but interfere with her ability to be a good friend.

She wakes determined not to allow her feelings any further interference. With only four days before their separation, Harriet must use the time to be as good a friend to Louise as ever.

Three days pass in bliss. Bursting with energy, Louise comes over as soon as she is free to and stays as long as she is able. They walk the grounds, chattering excitedly about signs that Spring will come early this year, taking turns exclaiming, “Oh, I shall miss you,” as they stroll. They go down to the village, accompanied by Liam, who pretends ignorance on the subject of ribbons until they narrow their potential purchase down to two options, at which point he states a clear preference for the primrose, citing the material’s durability as the deciding factor. They ride extensively, as Louise is determined to wear out her horse before his imminent period of disuse.

Each night, Harriet feels as though she hasn’t stopped moving since dawn. Sleep comes for her the moment she slides under the covers, before she even has a chance to breathe in her own scent from her pillow.

Louise doesn’t arrive in the morning of the fourth day. Harriet is exhausted enough to find patience easily and waits for the afternoon. But the sun soon begins to lower in the sky, casting the world in its weak, golden light, and still, Louise has not arrived.

Agitation sets in as Harriet worries her lip raw, fighting back the thought that Louise wouldn’t even say goodbye. What could be keeping her? Why had she not mentioned this the day before? If Harriet had known earlier that Louise was unable to visit, she would have travelled the distance herself. As darkness sets in, it extinguishes the possibility of her parents allowing her to leave, for they will not have her riding back in the night, nor do they ever allow her to impose upon Louise’s family, who already sleep two to a bed _without_ unexpected guests arriving at dusk.

She feels mortally ill. Her stomach surely has been filled with stones, so heavy and tight that she can barely breathe, let alone eat. Harriet excuses herself from supper and retires early. But sleep eludes her, for when she shuts her eyes, she sees Louise’s smile, Louise’s eyes, Louise’s ankles, Louise’s teeth, and it pains her entire body to think that it might be weeks before she sees the wispy chestnut hairs that curl at the top of Louise’s spine.

She lies, half-awake, for what must be hours, eyes stinging with salt when she opens them to look at the candles still burning. Harriet doesn’t know what beckoned her eyes to open until a moment later, when she makes out the sound of feet scrambling for purchase on the bricks just beneath her window.

Not daring to sit up, she watches silently as the window pulls open and two small hands clutch at the sill. Louise’s flushed, startled face appears, and only then does Harriet let out a quaking breath of relief.

“ _Louise_ ,” she sighs, just short of a sob, as that rosy face breaks into a joyful grin. Harriet holds out her arms, waiting, as Louise crawls headfirst through the window and onto the floor. When Louise stands up tall, smiling and brushing her hands clean across the front of her coat, Harriet releases a watery laugh. “You didn’t stumble this time.”

Lifting an affronted eyebrow at the suggestion that she would ever do anything besides not stumble, Louise steps lightly toward the bed, whispering, “It helps that your candles are still lit. Why are you not sleeping? Are you ill?”

In a single breath, Louise takes a seat on the bed and lays a frigid hand across Harriet’s brow, and Harriet gasps at the touch, at the cold, or in surprise. “Not anymore,” she murmurs, eliciting a curious look. The cool fingers at her temple push up into her hair and then disappear. “Where were you?”

There’s an apology in Louise’s expression that makes Harriet regret how miserable she surely sounded. It promptly fades, however, as Louise wraps her cold hands around one of Harriet’s, as though to absorb its warmth. “There were so many preparations to make, I hardly had a moment of rest. And the few times I _was_ able to take a seat, there were five girls waiting to climb into my lap and sniffle on my shoulder about how I would be missed, or shriek in my ear about what pretty gifts I must bring back from Bath, or beg me to tell them one more story before bed.”

Though Louise’s look is more fond than exasperated, Harriet does not want to be one more nose sniffling on her shoulder. She wants to _give_ to Louise, instead of take from her; at least, she wants to be _perceived_ as someone who wants to give to Louise, instead of someone who needs constantly to take from her.

“I’m glad you could come because...,” Harriet starts bravely, before trailing off as she searches for a reason other than _I needed to see you_. She looks about the room, dodging Louise’s sparkling eyes.

“Because you’re clearly delirious and in need of someone to keep you from walking in your sleep,” Louise laughs, standing again to shut the window. Harriet shivers, only now feeling the chill in the air. Facing the window, Louise begins to remove her coat, sparking an idea.

“No! It’s because I…I wanted to give you some of my gowns. To wear...so you can wear them, in Bath.”

Louise glances over her shoulder, pausing with the coat hanging from her elbows, low enough to spill out onto the floor. “You want _me_ to wear your gowns,” she says, sounding more amused than truly disbelieving. In profile, her smirk spreads across the only visible cheek. 

“Yes, of course.” Harriet pushes back the layers of quilts burying her, rushing to feet to free Louise’s arms before she does so herself. She hugs the coat to her chest before laying it across the bed, wondering how she failed to think of this sooner. There’s something thrilling in imagining Louise walking around the Bath assembly rooms wearing a gown that belongs to Harriet, a gown that might make her _think_ of Harriet, a gown that might _smell_ like Harriet, a gown that no one else would know was Harriet’s. “Any of them that you like. I’m sure I don’t mind you having them altered, if you must.”

She senses Louise coming closer, but Harriet moves more quickly. It’s only a couple of steps to her wardrobe, and then she’s picking out gowns, draping one over her arm, then another, and another. She passes over the plain ones, but Louise is so pretty that she would look beautiful in _any_ of these gowns. “I’ve got an excess of petticoats as well,” Harriet says, inspired. She wants to send Louise away with all of her belongings, wants to be on Louise’s skin every day that she’s gone.

“Harry,” Louise says, sounding so weary that it makes Harriet’s breath catch, because it’s _not working_ , she’s _not_ being helpful, she’s just making a scene in the middle of the night, emptying her wardrobe like she wishes she could empty her chest, give away her heart for Louise to pack up.

“I know this one’s not the most fashionable,” Harriet gasps, her voice strange to her own ears, too fast to sound anything like her. A tear gathers abruptly and falls down her cheek, but she ignores it. She holds up a simple, mazarine blue gown to the dim candlelight. “But you would look so lovely in it. Every—”

“Harry.”

Guided as much by the heartbreaking softness in that voice as by the hand that settles on her shoulder, Harriet turns to face Louise, who appears as a dark blur in her vision. Harriet can _feel_ that Louise is looking into her eyes, searching for something, but she’s helpless to do anything but fill them with more tears.

“Harry, love, s’all right.” The hand on her shoulder squeezes lightly.

“I know, I know it is.” Harriet doesn’t know why she’s _crying_ , and thus has no idea whether it’s all right or not, but she says it anyway, turning away to wipe her face onto her armful of muslin. If Louise wears this gown, she will smell like Harriet’s tears.

Louise doesn’t push closer. It feels like an attempt to trust Harriet, to give her enough time to gather her senses. The distance makes Harriet feel so alone, but it also makes her feel better; she’s not _such_ a mess that Louise has to treat her like an infant.

It’s Louise’s gentle smile, when Harriet’s eyes are dry enough to open, that calms the hitching of Harriet’s breath. Harriet even manages a weak laugh because this whole day has been so absurd, because Louise is _here_ , because Harriet has a dozen gowns draped over her arm.

“I, er…,” Louise’s voice trails off as she looks to the wardrobe, then to Harriet’s face, and then back to the wardrobe again. She rises onto her toes and removes one of the gowns that Harriet had not yet looked at: a pomona green one with a short train that she had outgrown a few months ago. “I’ve always loved this one,” Louise says, almost a whisper. She holds it close to her chest, looking down at it fondly. “It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

Harriet expects her to look up, but all she can see is the flutter of Louise’s long lashes on her cheek and that lopsided, _ironic_ -seeming smile curling up to one side.

Despite the averted gaze, Harriet feels the warmth of the compliment—or at least, the warmth of Louise making a compromise, reconciling Harriet’s delirious actions with the intent behind them. “Would you like to try it on?”

Louise finally looks up, her eyes inscrutable, and then suddenly exhausted. Harriet wants to kiss the puffiness surrounding them, the lines in the skin that deepen at night. “Would you like to help me?” Louise asks in return.

“Yes, of course,” Harriet answers, eager to be helpful. She drops her load of gowns to the floor and slides the green one out from Louise’s hands. Tucking the garment into the crook of her elbow, she moves behind Louise and begins untying the ribbon at the top of the simple white dress she’s currently wearing. Her fingers are trembling, which makes the work difficult. Harriet’s breath catches in her throat when Louise casts a blank, possibly disapproving look over her shoulder, showing her perfectly sloped profile, too lovely, even if she’s doubtful of Harriet’s ability to unite a simple bow.

Her fingers become even more unruly as her breath stumbles out of her and onto Louise’s prominent spine. She is touched by the urge to follow her breath with her lips, press a kiss to the knob at the base of Louise’s fine neck. It’s madness. She feels tears at the corners of her eyes again.

The dress falls, catching briefly on Louise’s arms before slipping all the way to pool at her feet, and Harriet feels her face grow feverishly hot. Logically, she knows it doesn’t make sense; the dress is so thin that the petticoat was always perfectly visible beneath it, so there shouldn’t be a world of difference between seeing her friend in a petticoat and seeing her friend in a petticoat thinly veiled by a drape of thin muslin. Furthermore, she has seen Louise in merely a petticoat on dozens of occasions, so this time shouldn’t make her blush as though it’s skin she’s seeing, instead of cotton.

But it _does_ feel different, and she _is_ blushing, and she knows, now, that the warmth she feels (from having Louise’s skin one layer closer, from seeing bumps where her corset presses up against the petticoat, from being trusted to pull the green gown over her raised arms) is coiled so low in her belly because that’s where she feels _desire_.

Louise’s voice startles her into realising that she has paused with the gown still gathered around her wrists. “Did you want to put me in one of your petticoats, too?”

Harriet is too mortified to consider whether Louise has any notion of how close to the truth her teasing is. It’s bad enough that her selfish, aimless thoughts are making Louise grow impatient. Without further delay, she draws the gown over Louise’s head and lets it unfurl over her body.

If only Louise weren’t so intent on Harriet’s actions, if only she weren’t tracking every minute motion as though trying to steal her way into her thoughts, as though Harriet is a child that needs tending to. Then, perhaps, Harriet might feel less suffocatingly aware of the difference between them right now: that Louise believes her hands are slipping on the gown’s buttons out of childish incompetence, whilst Harriet has learned that her incompetence regarding Louise has been far less childish than she used to believe.

Once each button is fastened, there remains a gap in the material that compels Harriet to slide her entire hand beneath it, curling her knuckles up against Louise’s spine. “It’s too big,” Harriet says, dazed and surprised, she thinks, though she didn’t expect it to fit any particular way. Louise is rounder in the chest, but Harriet tends to forget that the broadness of her own shoulders and the general puffy softness of her body might make her bigger, overall, than Louise.

Harriet comes around to the front, her fingers checking the fit of the sleeves. She tucks her knuckles into the impossibly soft padding of skin at the juncture between shoulder and bosom, wondering if the flesh would give under her lips, or if it would push back against them, fill her mouth. She can smell Louise’s sweat where it’s trapped under her arm, stale and animal, yet making Harriet’s mouth water as though it should be tasted. She strokes her fingers down, to draw more of the scent out into the air.

Louise goes still as stone, her arm squeezing painfully tight against Harriet’s fingers, and then she lets out a quivering laugh. As though waking from a dream, Harriet looks up, remembering that Louise has a face—a face contorted by fighting off laughter. Louise squirms away from her tickling touch, and Harriet bursts into tears once again.

“I didn’t mean to tickle you,” she wails through her tears and through her hands, which she cups over her miserable face so that Louise can’t see she’s crying.

“Shh, Harry,” Louise whispers. Her hand alights on Harriet’s back, which means she probably knows that she’s crying. Then, still quietly, “What _did_ you mean, then?”

 _To feel your skin with my fingers, my hands, my mouth, to squeeze you in my palm and make my dress fit tight over every curve and keep you here._ Harriet’s throat fills painfully tight with every unspoken word until she’s choking, and it all spills out in her tears. She wrenches herself away from Louise and throws herself onto the bed. “It…it’s too…big!” she cries.

There’s more laughter, even gentler this time. Even blinded by her quilt and deafened by her own sobbing, Harriet can hear the rustle of Louise stepping nearer. The bed sinks from under her as Louise’s weight joins hers. “There, there, you sound like little Lottie, crying over a silly dress.”

Harriet bites down on her quilt to soften her next bout of hysterical sobs. She doesn’t want to be Louise’s little sister. How many thousands of times has she wished for that exact thing? Now she’s choking on them all, for she wants Louise to love her _more_ than she loves her little sister Lottie. She wants Louise never to pity her or laugh at her. She wants Louise to want to kiss her _more_ than she kisses all of her sisters.

“All it needs is a bit of mending,” Louise assures her, as though she honestly believes that Harriet is simple enough to cry over a dress.

“I’m not a child,” Harriet groans, rolling onto her back so that she can glare at Louise, but of course, Louise’s concerned, tired face is so beautiful that it just makes Harriet’s chest ache harder.

“I know you’re not,” Louise says softly. She probably tells all her sisters that.

“I’m old enough to go to Bath.” If Harriet could just go to Bath, too, then they wouldn’t have to be apart, and she would be happy instead of miserable.

Louise’s gaze drifts up, and she brings a hand up to Harriet’s head. “Yes, you are. Old enough and…and pretty enough to outshine every girl there and come back with seven marriage proposals.”

Harriet hiccoughs, struck dumb. She hadn’t given any real thought to the prospect of Louise coming back with a _marriage proposal._ What if she doesn’t even come back and just moves directly to her husband’s castle in Cornwall? With that thought, her sobs catch up with her tenfold. She tries to roll her face down into the bed again, but the hand in her hair holds her still so she’s forced to cry directly under Louise’s scrutiny.

“You’re right; _eight_ marriage proposals is more like it,” Louise murmurs. Harriet can’t see through the tears, but the voice sounds soothing. If only she knew that her words were upsetting Harriet further.

Her touch, though—that _is_ soothing. Louise’s fingertips drag across her scalp, sending shivers down the back of her neck, and Harriet’s skin comes to life under the light scratch of those nails, her tongue swells with how good it feels. Warmth slowly replaces the icy ache in her chest. Only when she draws in a big, shuddering breath does she realise how much her hysterics have robbed her of air. Breathing feels exquisite. Louise’s fingers feel exquisite.

“There, now.” Harriet inhales deeply again, encouraged by Louise’s approval. “I’m going to step away, just for a moment, to retrieve a hairbrush, and then we’ll sort out this mess,” Louise suggests, so steady and sweet, almost a song. Harriet turns to press her head into Louise’s hand, nodding and groaning in agreement.

It takes less time for Louise to return with a brush than it takes for Harriet to grab the bedpost and pull her limp, exhausted body up toward the pillows. With still-cold hands, Louise guides her to lie on her side, with her face resting atop Louise’s outstretched thigh. Ropes of muscle clench beneath her cheek, and she wonders how pale the skin there is.

Louise brushes her hair, occasionally whispering tender reassurances, as she would to a sister. Past exhaustion, Harriet still feels the sting of Louise treating her as a child, but it slides down her cheek in easy, solitary tears that stain the green muslin darker. Even the thought of Louise marrying a stranger and never coming back doesn’t ache as it did a moment ago, if only because the possibility is too painful for her tired mind to fathom. The words mean nothing. Louise brushes her hair, and each gentle tug at her scalp sets another inch of her body at ease.

“I shall miss you,” Louise whispers, quieter than ever. Harriet’s eyes flutter open to see Louise’s delicate ankle stretched out before her.

She shuts her eyes against the vision, thinks, _I shall miss you more_ , and fights off sleep for as many strokes of Louise’s brush as she can.

When she wakes, her thighs are smeared with blood, half her hair is in tangles, her floor is a sea of muslin gowns, and there’s a resounding ache in her heart that she has never felt before, and it can only mean one thing: Louise is in a carriage, half a world away.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarity sweeps in, swift and forceful as a north wind. Like so many clouds, Harriet’s distracted thoughts are pushed away until only one truth remains, a detail as concealable and yet as unalterable as the blue of the sky. With the horizon stripped clean, there is no denying that Harriet’s whole world, her entire existence _,_ is _Louise_.

With Louise gone, there is no more talking with Louise. There is no more spending the afternoon with Louise. There is no more visiting Louise. There is no more waiting for Louise to arrive in the morning. There is no more waiting for Louise to arrive at her window in the night. There is no more sleeping with Louise. There is no more reason to bring herself to a climax at night without the thought of _what if Louise arrives at my window_ to hurry her hand. There is no more hoping for Louise’s fingers to card through her hair. There is no more racing of her heart as she kisses Louise goodbye. There is no more seeking excuses to sit in the same seat as Louise. There is no more tilting closer to catch a taste of the wetness on Louise’s lips as she speaks.

What a fool Harriet has been, not to have noticed that her entire day revolved around Louise, not to have noticed that she can recall, with tender accuracy, the taste of the wetness on Louise’s lips! Within the very first day of Louise’s absence, Harriet’s life feels impossibly empty, what else _is_ there, besides Louise—eating flavourless food? Bleeding? Following her mother around like a duckling without a will of its own? With no motivation to use it for her own purpose (even one as simple as getting out of bed), Harriet feels rather like a slave to her body.

But dwelling on her misery and foolishness morphs into imagining the alleviation of these conditions. Her body feels ten times less wretched when she thinks of the prospect of Louise’s return, the possibility of making the most of Louise’s company _without_ the blinding obstruction of her own foolishness.

It’s simple. One morning, Harriet sees the cold, blue morning sky through her bedroom window and wants to shout to it that being with Louise Tomlinson is all she wishes to do for the rest of her life.

What, exactly, _being with Louise Tomlinson_ means, however, is so far from simple that Harriet herself can’t comprehend it.

The definition doesn’t matter so much as the feeling does anyhow, at first. The _wanting_ itself feels good. Wanting to be with Louise means strolling through the grounds, warmed and smiling just from imagining a few weeks in the future, when the roses will be in full bloom and Louise will be strolling by her side, the sun shining on their joined hands. It means feeling a little less cold in the morning because soon she’ll wake up with Louise’s sleep-hot breath on the back of her neck.

“Are you in one of your despondent moods again?”

The words startle Harriet into blinking, her eyes painfully dry from staring into the fire, entranced by a reverie. She had been imagining what it would be like to kiss Louise _more_ , to kiss her lips and then kiss them again and again, until Louise understands that it’s simply what Harriet wants to do, that it’s not a kiss of greeting or of farewell or of pity or of apology—just _kissing_. Because it would feel so good, Louise’s wet lips sliding against hers, her breath in steady supply, there for the drinking. Would Harriet be able to feel the hardness of her little teeth? How many times can one kiss a person? How many seconds would their mouths stay pressed together before parting? Would Louise laugh at her for wanting such a peculiar thing? Would Louise be surprised by how good it would feel? Would Harriet’s lips taste good to her? Would Louise say so? Would her eyes fall shut? How would their bodies align to allow their mouths to remain close?

“Honestly, you’re behaving like a heroine in one of those silly novels you girls are always reading,” Liam admonishes in the wake of her continued silence.

Harriet turns her head from the fire, which has pulled her back in. Her face is burning hot. She lowers her fingers from her lips, where the skin is sore from her thoughtless pulling.

Her brother is standing on the hearth with his hands extended. He has probably just come in from the cold and is standing here for the dual purpose of thawing his frozen hands and pestering his younger sister.

Thinking quickly— _what retort would Louise make?—_ Harriet asks, “Oh, which one?” The words come out half as fast as Louise’s would, but they incite the desired response of Liam sputtering as he squints into the flames

“I couldn’t tell you, seeing as I haven’t read a single one.”

Harriet looks back into the fire, arranging her legs to ease the burning between them, which feels like too awkward a secret when she’s talking with her brother. “How very manly of you,” she comments. Her tone is somber enough to sound like neither a compliment nor an insult, though the depth of her frown should be a clue.

As he does with all comments that he cannot categorise, Liam simply ignores it. “ _Pamela, Belinda, Evelina,”_ he intones, his hands circling in cadence with the titles. Harriet looks up at him, reconsidering. He certainly seems well versed on the subject. “Or is it _Evangelina?”_ he tacks on in a rush, though not quickly enough to free him absolutely from suspicion of having read these novels in secret. He has always been a surprisingly good liar. “Whatever it is. I always wonder why young ladies don’t simply write each other letters instead of reading enormous volumes full of them.”

Even if Liam _does_ read novels in secret, that would only make it all the more irritating to hypocritically insult their readers for their foolishness. Harriet’s tone grows drastically ruder. “I don’t know, Liam. Perhaps young ladies like a little _romance_.”

Only as soon as she’s said the words, she wishes she could take them back, if only for her own sake. They feel like a betrayal. After all, what use has she for romance, when the greatest thrill of Louise reading novels to her has always been the way her voice gets higher and tighter as she approaches the more astonishing passages, the rise of the blush on her cheeks that matches the heat in Harriet’s own when the hero embraces the heroine.

She reclines on the settee and looks to the ceiling. “But you’re right, Liam. I would rather have a letter from Louise than an entire book full of romance.”

She says it because she assumes her brother will hear nothing but the complaints of a despondent novel’s heroine. She is surprised by the gentle lilt in his voice when he tells her, after a pause, “I’m sure you’ll have one before the week is through. The only things that could keep her from writing you are surely snow storms and highway robbers.”

Because her life is generally nothing like a novel, Harriet has considered neither of these things. She lifts her head to look at Liam in horror, but his expression makes no indication of whether or not he is serious.

That night, Harriet dreams of being attacked by highway robbers, all alone in her stagecoach, which the masked men are tearing into pieces, until a black horse comes riding in—except then _she_ is the one on the black horse (whom she recognises suddenly as her own horse Puck, even though Puck _usually_ has a chestnut coat), and she rides to the pretty, frightened girl with the pink cheeks who is waiting amidst the floating fragments of stagecoach (the girl who _isn’t_ Harriet, at least not anymore), and with one hand, she pulls the girl onto the saddle with her, (where her own legs are _astride_ , which is shocking even to her dream-self, as she only knows how to ride sidesaddle), and then Louise’s hair is loose and whipping all over Harriet’s face as they canter away, and it’s _Louise_ she has just rescued, and Harriet’s heart bursts with joy, but just as she is about to press her face into the back of Louise’s neck, Louise twists around ( _who is holding the reins?_ Harriet thinks) with her cupped hands full of packed snow, which Harriet takes into her own hands, knowing without words that they _must_ make sure the snow is delivered safely to…wherever they are delivering it, and as she presses it to her chest, she notices that, naturally, it has been snowing heavily this entire time.

Her heart racing when she wakes up from this adventure in the morning, Harriet’s glad to have letters from Louise arrive that afternoon. Louise had waited to accumulate a few days’ worth before sending them so as not to exhaust the hospitality of the Cordens, who insisted on paying the price of postage.

Harriet reads through each page until her face aches from smiling. She is so happy to see Louise’s handwriting, to touch a sheet of paper that Louise had touched just days before.

Instead of highway robbers and snow storms, Louise’s stories all have to do with who appeared at Tuesday’s ball, what the wealthiest ladies were wearing this year, how exhausted she is from all the excitement, and how much she loves being surrounded by people.

Harriet composes a response immediately after reading. She hopes that Louise will not wait to receive her reply before sending a new group of letters, but in any case, she wants Louise to know as soon as possible how very glad Harriet is that she is feeling so well. ( _I miss you even more than I could have anticipated_ ; _life is so dreadfully dull here_ ; _please tell me everything, every detail, so that I can experience every moment of your joy._ )

Only after she has sent the first letter does she consider what to write in the next. What could she possibly say to Louise about what has been in her mind these past several days? _I spend hours every day wishing for your return. I want to spend every moment of every day with you. I don’t think I should ever tire of your company. I need you to come back sooner because I want to kiss you. I know you may not think it important, but I am sure that, if you let me do it right, I can show you that it can feel so good, that you will see its importance._ What on earth would Louise make of any of it? Surely, she would fear for Harriet’s health, or else believe she was joking.

Harriet doesn’t send a second letter.

Instead, she contents herself to read Louise’s letters a second, third, fourth time. Her contentment begins to fade into unease, however, as her consecutive readings unveil some troubling patterns.

The most troubling of these patterns is that Louise hardly says anything about Harriet at all. She rarely addresses her by name. She doesn’t mention missing her. She doesn’t even wish her well.

With what feels like great courage, Harriet suppresses the urge to dwell on the disparity between her affection and Louise’s. She cannot expect Louise’s thoughts to be full of nothing but Harriet, in complete reciprocity. Louise is surrounded by excitement, she probably has a thousand things to distract her attention every day. Perhaps, if she were in isolation, Louise would miss Harriet so overwhelmingly that she could write of nothing else. But she is not in isolation, she is in Bath, and Harriet will not be so self-centered as to take offense to Louise’s enjoyment of her surroundings.

But in her own isolation, Harriet resumes enjoyment of her surroundings, which involves reading Louise’s favourite books and practicing Louise’s favourite songs on the pianoforte.

Harriet’s seventeenth birthday arrives in a flurry of new letters. She reads them in her room instead of welcoming her young cousin who has come to stay through the week. It feels a bit rude, but the rudeness itself excites her: nothing will stand in the way of her enjoying Louise’s letters.

However, that excitement lasts only as long as it takes Harriet to realise that the letters are _not_ enjoyable _._ Aside from the reassurance that Louise is still safe from monstrous highway robbers, Harriet takes no pleasure in the letters’ contents at all.

It seems that certain people who were mentioned briefly in Louise’s first letters have rapidly become the most important figures in her life. Apparently, _Hannah_ is perfectly adorable and delightful to spend time with and has _the prettiest face in all of Bath_ , which is such an excessive compliment, in Harriet’s opinion. Then there is _Danielle_ , who is apparently _so good_ at listening and giving advice that she knows all of Louise’s secrets, which is just preposterous, Louise doesn’t even _have_ secrets to share; Harriet would know, or at least she _should_ know, and the thought that she might _not_ know makes her cross.

Worst of all is _Eleanor_ , or _Miss Calder_ , as Louise refers to her half the time. “ _Is it not amusing that all of Bath thinks us the oldest and closest of friends? She is too calculating ever to be dear to me, but the fierceness of her dedication to appearances is admirable. She has taken it upon herself to include me in her grand performance as a warm and charitable young woman. I do not resent the company of such a well-known name, but I find myself laughing every time she introduces me as her dearest friend._ ”

This is far too much, Harriet thinks, making fists in her sheets and biting down tears as she scourges the letters for clues that it’s all in jest. Louise was meant to go to Bath and enjoy good company. Louise was _not_ meant to go to Bath and share all her time and secrets with girls she has only just met, to be seen by all of society as _someone else’s_ dearest friend.

“No, it is _not_ amusing,” she whispers adamantly, smoothing out the wrinkled page in order to finish re-reading the paragraph about _Miss Calder_. Even in her justified rage, she feels a little ridiculous for being more upset by Louise’s _fake_ friendships than her supposedly real ones. She certainly doesn’t have the energy to challenge her reactions, though, since thinking of Louise whispering secrets into _Danielle’s_ ear makes her stomach churn past the point of all logic, whilst thinking of _Miss Calder_ walking arm in arm with Louise all about town makes Harriet’s stomach boil over with acid as though to murder her from within. Her stomach hurts quite a lot.

“ _At least there is some green to Eleanor’s eyes, which are very pretty to look at._ ”

This is the line in which Harriet eventually grounds herself. Here is the proof that she is not merely being sensitive and taking things personally that have nothing to do with her. This line is an _insult_ , whether intentional or not. Did Louise simply _forget_ that Harriet has green eyes? Why else would she act so pleased to find them in someone else? How could she not realise that Harriet would be deeply injured by her calling another girl’s green eyes “pretty” without even mentioning Harriet’s own? (Louise has complimented them so many times before—did those times mean nothing to Louise? Did her eyes truly leave no lasting impression?)

The alternative—that the insult is intentional—is equally upsetting to Harriet. It would mean that Louise wants her to feel ignored, wants her to feel as though she has been replaced. Pages and pages about how pretty and agreeable her new friends are without so much as a single _I miss you, Harriet_ among them: could this be Louise’s way of communicating that she is cross with her? But Harriet can’t think of what she has done to cause such displeasure, unless it was the childish way she demanded all of Louise’s attention when she was already so over-exhausted, on the night before her departure.

But this agony cannot be intentionally inflicted. Harriet cannot believe that her friend would choose to make her so miserable, especially as recourse for a single night of annoyance. No, the insult _must_ be unintended. Louise has simply forgotten Harriet. Harriet has simply been replaced.

 _Jealousy_ , she thinks. That’s what this feeling is. She doesn’t remember ever having felt it before; she always thought it was for silly girls with their hopes set too high. But there can’t be any other word for Harriet’s sudden obsession with imagining Louise with these other girls in every scenario that her letters describe. Her mind is even generous enough to invent scenarios that Louise didn’t have room to write about. She can so vividly see Louise’s eyes squinting tight with laughter at some petty remark _Hannah_ makes.

Every turn of Harriet’s head to escape the jealous thoughts merely floods her mind with more images. Every look Louise ever gave her, whether joyful, tearful, doubtful, or playful, Harriet imagines directed toward one of these other girls.

Jealousy is a decidedly unpleasant sensation, so Harriet soon leaves the letters beside her bed to flee down the stairs into the distraction of company.

Her cousin Elizabeth is eight whole years younger than she is, but that does not prevent their families from assuming the two to be the dearest of friends. Harriet tries not to resent that her parents deem her to be of equal intellectual maturity as a girl who only learned to skip rope last summer. Instead, she tries to be gracious, to treat her young cousin with the same warmth and wisdom with which Louise treats her little sisters.

“Oh, Lizzie,” Harriet sighs, playing with the girl’s golden ringlets. The adults have abandoned them to their own company, and Harriet tries to value the benefits of this situation. A young girl of eight cannot protest to have anything more important to do than to listen to her elder cousin speak for minutes on end about herself.

“…And she has told me so _very_ many times that she finds my green eyes beautiful, but now she tells me how beautiful she thinks this _other girl’s_ green eyes are! What am I to think?” Harriet pauses her drawling account for a breath, not expecting to receive a reply to her query.

“I’ll tell you what _I_ think,” little Lizzie says with the air of someone who has been alive for much more than eight years.

It startles Harriet, seeing her cousin lift her brows in a mature, conversational manner. She wonders if perhaps wisdom comes from the most unlikely places. “What do you think?” she prompts, wide-eyed and open.

Lizzie sighs, and it sounds like a perfect replica of Harriet’s mother sighing. “I think she should have had more horses.”

Harriet stops with her hands in Lizzie’s hair ribbon, halfway through tying a bow. “More horses?” she asks, trying to make sense of this piece of wisdom.

Lizzie nods abruptly, pulling her hair free from Harriet’s light grasp. Her tone suddenly sounds perfectly childish once again as she explains, “You said she rode to Bath in a carriage drawn by _two_ horses. But _four_ horses is far better than _two_ horses.”

Harriet allows her disappointment to settle in. She misses Louise’s company so very much; if only she could speak to Louise instead of a child.

She shakes her head. How could she speak _to_ Louise _about_ Louise. Harriet is being ridiculous. “ _Are_ better,” she says, pulling Lizzie back toward her lap by her hair. “Four houses _are_ better, not _is_.”

After a moment of silence, Harriet resumes her tale.

“…And I don’t know how to respond to her letter. Should I point out to her that she has forgotten me? Or allow her to enjoy her life without me? Oh, what should I say to her?” she eventually asks, unintentionally inviting a response.

The decisive response is, “You should ask her how many horses she has seen in Bath.”

Harriet presses on and discusses _almost_ all her potential replies. As she speaks, she realises that she is holding back on some subjects, such as how much she would like to kiss Louise, how much she wants to spend every night sleeping by her side. Her heart flutters at the exciting, confusing awareness that such subjects are unsuitable for children.

Still, part of her wants to give voice to her thoughts. “Do you know,” she asks, dropping into a lower tone of voice, “I miss the smell of her hair—”

“What colour is her hair?”

Pleased to have Lizzie’s active attention, Harriet says, “Like mine but darker, finer. Much harder to curl. Oh, brown.”

“My horse’s coat is white.”

Harriet’s jaw clenches before she stubbornly resumes her story.

“…And I merely want to spend all my time with her. Or at least wake up with her in my bed every day. Is that too great a something to ask for?” she asks, looking out the window at the sun, low in the southwest corner of the sky, pointing the way to Bath.

“You know what’s great? Horses,” Lizzie announces poetically.

Harriet collapses with her back against the settee, crossing her arms. It seems that she will be hearing a great deal about horses in the coming weeks. “What ‘ _are_ ’great. Not what ‘ _is_ ’ _._ ”

Harriet composes her reply late, late in the night, after many fruitless attempts to sleep. In the morning, she picks it up from her bedside to make sure that it is suitable to send.

_My not so dear Louise,_

_Perhaps Bath is full of pretty girls for you to make friends with, but I doubt it has half so many fine horses. Today I went to visit Puck in his pasture, and I was so moved by his loyalty, his gentleness in manner, the warmth of his attention, the way he ran from the other horses in the pasture to come see me the moment I appeared, and how he always remembers to ask me how my day was._

_I must leave now. I am so busy, I do not know when I shall get a chance to write again._

_Your acquaintance,_

_Harriet_

_P.S. In case you have forgotten, I thought I should inform you that my eyes are the colour green, and you have commented upon the prettiness of the colour many times. In case you should need to remember, if you speak of me at all with your glamorous friends. Or when you wear the gown I gave you!_

_How many horses have you seen in Bath?_

There are some illegible smudges beneath that, words that she has absolutely no recollection of writing.

It’s not a good letter. Her conviction from the middle of the night did not fill her with the same sense of vindication upon reading it in the morning after very little sleep. Still, she is tired and cannot imagine finding the strength to write a better one.

“It’s time to go riding! It’s time to go riding! You said!” Lizzie screams as she bursts through Harriet’s door and launches herself onto the bed to climb atop her knees.

Harriet smiles, despite herself. Her cousin’s enthusiasm for horses translates to physical affection, and Harriet could never resist a good cuddle.

“Indeed, it is,” she agrees, drawing her knees up, the better to squeeze her cousin with. “But before we start, you must do something very, very important for me.”

Lizzie pulls back with a look that starts out skeptical and shifts into grave sincerity. “What is it?” she asks, her voice full of intrigue.

Harriet presses her letter into the girl’s tiny hands. “You must bring this letter to Henrietta in the kitchen to be posted immediately. Or we shall never find out how many horses there are in Bath.”

The girl’s beady grey eyes go wide before she suddenly takes off with the letter. Harriet giggles to herself, but Lizzie hears it, stopping mid-stride in the doorway to turn back and peer at her older cousin. The look is accusing, as though she suspects Harriet is less serious about horses than she pretends to be. Imperiously, Lizzie lifts her nose and declares, “We depart in ten minutes...I suggest you ready yourself,” before striding out of the room.

~~~

A few days later, Harriet and Lizzie are welcomed back from a long afternoon ride by Liam, who hands a sealed letter to Harriet with a significant glance. “This arrived for you,” he comments, before effortlessly lifting their young cousin from her saddle.

Harriet nearly falls off of her own. She has been alternately comforting and torturing herself with the thought that Louise would never write to her again. Now that she has a letter in hand, she realises that she has been holding her breath for over three days, that she was outright lying when she told herself she was prepared not to speak to Louise until she returned from Bath. Her heart is fluttering its way out of her chest with the sudden breath and hope.

_My Dear Sir,_

_It seems I must remind you that not a soul has laid claim to mine with a proposal. If someone should propose to marry me, then perhaps I might tolerate his petty jealousy on the subject of with whom I spend or do not spend my time. Perhaps I might even comment on his beauty more than that of my friends. However, as I may remind you, no one has this hold over me._

_I am glad that you have a horse who truly means what he says when he asks to hear about your day’s adventures. If only we could all so clearly articulate our desires, we would surely be more satisfied with the letters that we receive._

_Not yours, sincerely,_

_Louise_

Harriet notices the disapproval and frustration in Louis’s words. She truly does. She has witnessed Louise mocking others enough times to imagine the bitterness in her tone, were she to speak the words in her letter aloud. She feels reprimanded and ashamed. Vaguely, she knows she has been caught in her unreasonable jealousy and scolded for her selfishness. However, she’s unable to devote much thought to her mistakes because the part of the letter that is ringing like a cacophony of cathedral bells within her mind is the address: _My Dear Sir_.

She feels dizzy with it, faint with the mad flight of her blood as she realises that she has been acting in a way that would be expected from a _man_ , and that Louise has _noticed_ this. Her jealousy resembles that of a suitor! It’s just as though they were characters in a novel. If life were a novel, Harriet’s character would be a man!

There must be shame in being found manly--especially, perhaps, by Louise, who thinks so little of men. Louise may well have meant the whole thing as an insult, but Harriet cannot dwell on these low points, she is too swept up in a swift current of excited revelation, so swift that her mind cannot stay long enough in one thought to fully understand it. Everything feels so muddy and so clear all at once. She wants to kiss Louise, and she is jealous of Louise’s attention the way a suitor would be! These thoughts seem related, somehow, in a way that floods her heart with blood.

She drops to the grass beside Puck’s hooves, clutching the letter to her chest and looking up at the patchy blue sky. After ascertaining that she has not fainted, Liam walks her horse back toward the stables with a long-suffering sigh as Harriet stares into the space between two clouds until her eyes water with the brightness, and her vision begins to spin. 

It is in this state that Harriet devises a plan.

She will write to Louise as though she is wooing her. At first, the letters will seem to Louise, and to any nosy individuals who might be reading other people’s correspondence, like a fun game—a replacement for novels, a diverting attempt to seize control of the creation of fictitious romance. Eventually, however, Louise will begin to realise that there is no difference between being wooed by a fictitious man and being wooed by Harriet. The only difference will be that Louise actually _likes_ Harriet and _doesn’t_ like men.

In time, Harriet’s subtlety will convince Louise to be her lover. 

~~~

_My Dear Miss Tomlinson,_

_Would that I could call you ‘My Dearest Miss Tomlinson,’ ‘My Beloved,’ or ‘My Dearest, Most Beloved Mrs. Styles.’_

So begins Harriet’s next letter. The strokes of ink on the page seep in and spread slowly as she reads over the words, mimicking the heat blooming on her own face, incriminating and permanent.

She takes a deep breath, dips her pen in the ink once again, and continues to write.

She weaves a tale of a nobleman kept apart from his lady love by misunderstanding, fate, family intervention, and worst of all, some combination of a shipwreck, a convent, and a fortune made abroad. These are the reasons, Harriet writes, that she has not yet been able to ask for Louise’s hand in marriage. The only way that Louise can release her from her misery is to promise to remain faithful to her and to not accept any other man’s proposal until they are reunited.

The letter turns out to be several pages long. Harriet’s hand is cramped and stiff when she finishes, but she pushes through the pain to carefully sign it.

_Would that I could call myself yours,_

_Harry_

That night, she pushes her sore, hardened hand with its newly calloused fingertips between her thighs and marvels at how foreign her own touch feels, as though her hand was a man’s and she was touching a woman. She imagines Louise receiving her letter and wonders if her voice will draw tight and breathy the way it does when she reads romantic passages from books aloud. 

~~~

_Dear Mr. Styles,_

_You must pardon me for requesting some proof of your intent. How am I to know you do not write in jest? That you are not merely playing games, as a silly young girl would? Some token of your sincerity would do much to secure a promise such as the one you have requested. If no such token arrives within a fortnight, I shall be forced to believe that your tales of shipwrecks and fortunes must be fantasies, as those of a young, innocent girl who knows nothing of the world._

_In the meantime, my dear friends at the convent will continue to take care of my social needs and look out for promising opportunities that will benefit my situation more than childish games ever could._

_Would that I might call myself yours,_

_Louise_

Harriet frets a full hour over this letter before sending a reply, for what token could she possibly send? She has nothing like an engagement ring or any sum of money to send that could be taken as a promise.

So whilst her mother is sewing later that afternoon, Harriet steals into her room in search of the finest gold-chain necklace she can find, the one with a simple pearl charm. Harriet has something of the sort in her own jewelry box, but Louise deserves something _different_ , something _significant_. Without asking her mother, Harriet takes the necklace and lays it carefully in the envelope before writing again, intending for the letter to be very formal, subtle, and serious.

_My dearest,_

_This simple pearl knows nothing of your beauty but contains my whole heart. It longs to lie on your chest and kiss the skin between the beautiful swells of your bosom. It longs to be embraced by your warmth, like two fingers pushing across the dewiness of your sweat and into the dark secrets of your love. If you will, please kiss your lips to this simple pearl, and my heart will feel it from miles away, for the sting of your lips upon my most tender heart of hearts has occurred in my mind’s eye so many times that I am sure any trace of its occurrence will alert me to its presence._

_I hope it is not too late for me to send such a gift and such a desire your way. It is my greatest wish that I will someday hold you against my own chest and kiss the pearl that resides upon yours._

Harriet’s hand has grown unsteady as she writes, too fiercely for her to control. She feels as though she is the reader, not the writer, of such passionate language, as though her desire has a will and voice of its own, separate from her. She only hopes that Louise doesn’t think she’s gone too far. She adds,

_I must go, for a storm is coming, and the sailors say we may be in danger._

_Harry_

It’s not until this letter is posted that she allows herself to silently whisper the words to herself in the dark: _I’m in love with Louise_.

~~~

Being in love with Louise and imagining their reunion quickly overtakes Harriet’s entire life.

When she plays royal hunt with her little cousin, she tries riding astride her horse and holding herself very high and imagines Louise walking past and seeing an attractive man whom she instantly wishes to marry. She wears her riding habit all afternoon, finding it comforting in its almost masculine appearance, and wonders if Louise would like her if Harriet were a man.

When she pays a visit to her mother’s cousin on the far side of town, Harriet immediately corners the newly wedded wife and asks for all the details of what it’s like to be married to the person she fell in love with. She’s disappointed and confused when the woman speaks with dispassionate appreciation of the life her husband allows her and his generosity. If Louise were Harriet’s wife, she would make sure she was so happy every day that she could not speak of her marriage without tears of excitement.

At night and in the morning, whilst she watches the fog swirling outside her window from the warmth of her bed, Harriet presses the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger to her lips and imagines kissing the soft, damp space between Louise’s breasts. Her mind sometimes journeys so far as to imagine pushing her breasts apart, holding their weight in her hands without the shield of fabric between their skin, and touching her fingertip to the puckered crest—would it be brown like Harriet’s? Or more pink, like Louise’s lips? And what would it feel like under her hand, under her mouth? Harriet touches this part of her own chest, picturing Louise’s pink lips, and how well she would kiss them if she ever gets the chance to do so.

~~~

Harriet reads the first sentence of the next letter before excusing herself and reading the rest of it in the privacy of her own room.

_My beloved Harry,_

_You know nothing of hearts and pearls, but if you would allow me, I would put mine in your very mouth. I would have you kiss me like the bold heroes of novels I have read. I would look into your eyes and never look away for the rest of our lives together. I would worship your laughter and kiss your smile and hold you so tightly that a tear could never escape from your eyes._

_Perhaps—as I am imprisoned in a convent whilst you travel the seven seas—you believe me to be an innocent maiden who has never thought that you might love me. But I assure you, I have dreamt of your lips for longer than you have dreamt of mine. I have dreamt of your hand ~~s~~. I have dreamt of being as a wife to you._

_But these remain little more than dreams—dreams and, now, a pearl upon my chest—which all of ~~my friends~~ the sisters will ask me about and scold me for not telling them about, for you must remain a secret. They will surely speculate by whom it was gifted, though I know none of them will guess it’s a man of foreign fortune battling the seven seas to come back to me. Or perhaps they will. Regardless, they won’t guess that it is you whose pearl I hold between my lips every night before sleeping._

_I hope you understand what I mean when I say I would do everything in my power to hold you to my chest every night—yet I do not possess much power, and so I hope you will forgive me._

_I hope you understand what I mean when I say that I stand by the words I said four years ago on the river bank._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Louise_

The whole of the letter is so distracting that it takes Harriet a full day to recall the words Louise said four years ago on the river bank, on a sunny summer afternoon whilst they were reading to each other with their feet cooling in the water: “No matter what happens, nothing shall ever be as dear to me as you are.”

Harriet’s heart breaks open in a flood like thunder before an earth-nourishing downpour when she finally realises that it’s possible Louise has been wishing for the same thing that she has, and for far longer. Has Harriet been working toward subtly convincing Louise of something her friend has been trying to convince _her_ of?

Oh, how Harriet longs to be washed away by the torrents of Louise’s patient love. She wants to go back to the moment when Louise first wanted to kiss her—when could it have been? how much time have they been wasting?—and take Louise’s lips in hers at that very moment in time.

_Dear Louise,_

_The last night we were together—when we met in secret in the cloisters—I longed to kiss you the way a husband would kiss his wife. That is why I said all the things I said. I was foolish and ignorant and knew not the strength of my own passion, nor the truth of yours. My heart is in my throat waiting to hear if you felt the same._

_Yours,_

_Harry_

Her broken-open heart _is_ in her throat for days on end as she awaits the reply. Having spent the past few weeks sifting through her memories of Louise and re-evaluating her own feelings about their closeness, she finds it both exhilarating and painful to comb through those same memories yet again to imagine _Louise’s_ feelings in those same remembered moments. It’s like scraping a comb over an already scraped patch of skin.

Harriet opens her sketchbook in hopes of distracting herself from her wildly spinning thoughts, but within its pages, she finds drawing after drawing of Louise, lovingly crafted by her own hand, as though her artistic vision knew her true feelings more than she did. She wonders if Louise could tell from these drawings what Harriet’s true feelings were. Did she believe Harriet was intentionally keeping her longing locked up in pencil and paper, never to be set free to the light of day?

Every time Louise climbed up the window and into her room, had she come hoping for more closeness than Harriet had allowed her? Had Louise thought her cruel, or just ignorant? And could she ever forgive Harriet for her cruel ignorance? How could Harriet ever make it up to her?

Harriet draws a new picture. She draws a dozen. She draws Louise’s legs. She draws her lips. She draws her chest, with a small pearl nestled high in the pillowed softness where she longs to rest her own head. She draws Louis’s neck and imagines kissing it; she draws Louis’s neck with a second figure’s lips an inch away, about to descend.

 _Dear Harriet_ , begins the last letter she receives from Bath.

_I dare not write any further of our past or future lives without seeing your face as we speak, but please know—_

_I do feel the same._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Louise_

And so, Harriet must wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger... Tune in next week! Also, thank you for all your lovely feedback! [Fic post is here](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/post/614453105638195200/newleafover-harriet-and-louise-by-blake-30k) if you'd like to reblog.


	3. Chapter 3

Harriet spends hours on end imagining one hundred ways that her reunion with Louise will go, but it doesn’t go in any of the ways that she pictured.

When it happens, Harriet is speckled in mud all the way up to her ears, the price of spending the morning drawing the irises that have recently bloomed by the bank of the stream that leads to town. She is wearing her riding habit, even though there is no horse to be seen. She had woken up to find her face covered in spots, and the wind has been steadily pulling her hair loose for hours.

She walks along the dirt road because it’s the long way home, and she wants time to invent a story that will excuse her appearance from her mother’s disapproval.

But halfway along her path, she hears a coach behind her, so she pulls to the side, getting yet more mud on her shoes. She looks down to inspect her dirt-caked ankles as the stagecoach passes swiftly by, glancing up only when she hears it come suddenly to a halt just a few feet away.

“My good man, have you lost your horse?” calls a booming, jovial voice. In a rush to correct the misunderstanding, Harriet steps back onto the road to approach the window through which she is being addressed.

However, the round face sticking out the window is merely that of Lord Corden, already grinning widely. He raises a loose fist politely in front of his mouth as though to hide his amusement, but nothing could disguise the rosy smile that every child growing up in a five-mile radius knew as a precursor either to sweets or to a _truly_ funny joke.

Harriet can feel the dimples forming in her cheeks. “You knew it was me,” she remarks, sounding infantile but past caring. She’s relieved to see a familiar face, someone who will surely charm her parents out of noticing the state of her dress. She has been looking forward to seeing the Cordens, too, because—

With a jolt, Harriet remembers that with Lord and Lady Corden comes _Louise_. Her jaw drops in the same second that Lord Corden winks and says, “Miss Tomlinson recognised you from a mile back, I believe.”

Just then, someone—no, _Louise_ —whips around the back of the carriage like a slingshot hurled from the other door. It happens so quickly that Harriet barely has time to drop her sketchbook and pencil, brace her feet, close her eyes, and prepare her heart for its inevitable stop before Louise is in her arms again.

But—Louise _isn’t_ in her arms again. No impact comes. Harriet opens her eyes, disoriented and stumbling over nothing. There in front of her, having stopped short just outside an arm’s reach, is Louise. Beautiful, beautiful Louise. Bright, golden Louise with her pink, parted lips and her panting, heaving chest and her startled-wide and terribly blue eyes.

“Louise,” Harriet exhales. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment. Not a single one of her imaginings had included this sensation of having all the air in the world disappear, sucking all her surroundings out with it, so that there is nothing on the earth but her body and Louise’s, which is meant to be pressed against her own.

In one movement, Harriet collapses forward and draws Louise to her. So close and so tight, Louise’s body pushing into hers is the fiercest feeling she has ever experienced, and she is so absolutely certain, as the rest of the world blackens around them, that she was right. She _is in love with_ Louise. Loving Louise is the only substance of her existence.

“ _Harriet_ ,” Louise sighs, the breathlessness of it brushing the skin just below Harriet’s ear. It’s the most beautiful sound that Harriet has ever heard in her life. She feels it shiver down her neck, wash down her spine, and pool low, _so low_ , in her belly, and now that she _knows_ what she wants to do to Louise, she can’t feel anything else but the wanting. She pulls her arms tighter, squeezing around Louise’s waist and feeling it surrender and shift under the pressure, the most magnificent revelation.

“Ah,” Harriet gasps. Then there’s a scraping at her back, Louise’s clutching hands strong enough to feel through her clothing.

The universe spins as Louise pulls away abruptly, holding only Harriet’s hand, to steady her as she nearly slips on the solid dirt beneath her feet.

“I do love a happy reunion,” a voice says, from somewhere. Harriet can’t make out any other quality of it, can’t even tell whether the voice is male or female. She’s too occupied looking at Louise, whose sharp cheekbones are dusted with the loveliest shade of pink, like the hyacinths in her mother’s garden, Harriet thinks. With her chin tilted slightly down, her eyelashes draping coyly over her eyes, Louise looks back at her. Louise _knows_ what Harriet wants. _Louise wants it, too_. Harriet has never been more sure of something. The only thing she doesn’t understand is why Louise is standing so far away.

“Yes, however,” a voice says. A different voice, Harriet thinks, as her surroundings begin to trickle back into her consciousness. “A happy reunion with my bed awaits me, and I do wish to be prompt.”

Harriet can’t help but smile when a little corner of a smirk tucks itself into Louise’s cheek. Turning her head to the side, she says, “Lord Corden, your wife wants nothing more than to sleep, yet here you are, halting our journey just to take pity on a dirty village girl who’s clearly up to no good.”

What little blood remains in Harriet’s spinning head fills up her cheeks, which go hot at Louise’s words and then _hotter_ when, a moment later, she realises that Louise’s words are describing _her_.

“I...I’m just...!” Harriet gasps out in a blubbering attempt to defend herself. From whom she is defending herself, she doesn’t know, but she _does_ know, if she thinks about it, that neither Louise nor the Cordens would mistake her for anybody save herself. That knowledge doesn’t make the fiery embarrassment—or pride?—fade from her cheeks. Even ripping her gaze from Louise in order to glance at Lord Corden’s laughing face doesn’t unclench the fist that’s gathered inside her throat.

It is Lady Julia Corden who completes Harriet’s sentence for her. “Just chasing wild animals round the wood, surely,” she says, her voice fond and filled with sleep. She tilts her head to rest on the side of the carriage, where she was presumably nodding off before it stopped. “You always were an adventurous child.”

“Is it true?” Louise asks brightly, as Lady Julia begins snoring. That breathtaking blue gaze turns back to Harry, quick as lightning. “Are you adventurous?

Harriet struggles to suck in a shaking breath because she can barely handle the way that Louise is looking at her (challenging, heated, _knowing_ ), let alone what she’s _saying_ or the fact that she’s saying it _in front of an audience_.

“Not adventurous enough to walk all the way back home alone,” Lord Corden says with a decisive air. Harriet is having trouble following any of these conversations, so she furrows her brow in an effort to concentrate.

“I can walk with her,” Louise offers, only now releasing Harriet’s hand in favour of turning toward the carriage. “I have had enough of private _coaches_ to last me a lifetime,” she adds, and though Harriet is having trouble understanding anyone’s meaning, she thinks there’s an odd emphasis in Louise’s second statement.

It takes her a moment to look past the part about coaches and hear the important bit: she might get to walk _alone with Louise_.

Her mind floods suddenly with the ways she imagined reuniting with Louise. (Some of them involved the wind tangling their hair together, the taste of cold on Louise’s lips, pressing Louise’s small frame against a tree trunk, Louise wrestling her down onto the dewy grass in her excitement. One even involved raindrops catching on Louise’s long eyelashes, but there’s not a cloud in the sky today.) Though welcome in their own way, the sudden flood of images isn’t helpful for keeping up with conversation.

“Ladies, with no escort. Nonsense,” Lord Corden says, or at least that’s what Harriet thinks he has said when the ringing in her ears begins to fade. “I, however, require no escort, and insist on Miss Styles taking my place.”

Politeness jars Harriet into speaking. “I would not have Lady Julia further delayed on my account! I promise I can deliver myself safely to my own home.”

She’s startled by the flashing glance that Louise sends her at an angle, Louise’s hand finding her own again (making Harriet’s breath catch and her politeness recede to the background). Louise grips firmly, as though to demonstrate to the others that what Harriet _meant_ to say was “ _Louise can deliver me safely…_ ”

That odd, harsh edge of emphasis returns to Louise’s tone as she says, “Yes, and we would not want Miss Styles to get mud all over the coach’s interior.”

“I have the _perfect_ solution!”

The addition of a new voice shocks Harriet. She squeezes Louise’s hand in fright and is further distressed when it slips away from her grasp.

A short man in uniform emerges from the other side of the coach. Harriet has always found soldiers quite a boring crowd in general, but somehow this one strikes her as the most ordinary-looking person she has ever met.

“Oh, Miss Styles!” Lord Corden shouts excitedly, though not excitedly enough to rouse himself from his seat. “Allow me to introduce Captain Brian Jungwirth.” The featureless man makes an expression that Harriet cannot read, due to the featureless nature of his face. He bows his head, and Harriet makes a curtsy shallow enough not to endanger her sense of balance. (It is a very shallow curtsy.) “Captain Jungwirth was so generous as to save us the trouble of hiring a coach by bringing us all the way from Bath in his own!”

“It’s the fastest thing on four wheels,” both Louise and Lord Corden say in unison, as though they had heard the phrase enough times to commit it to memory. Harriet looks back and forth at their faces and sees suppressed laughter. When she looks back to Captain Jungwirth, it is impossible to tell if he notices their amusement at all.

“Lord Corden is not being honest,” the Captain finally says.

Harriet mumbles the first words that come to mind. “Your coach _isn’t_ fast?”

At this, Louise loses control of her snickering and suddenly dips forward to press her face into Harriet’s shoulder, squeezing a hand around Harriet’s arm. Harriet very nearly loses her balance again as she looks down at the loveliest girl in the world, laughing against _her_ shoulder.

“No, my coach _is_ fast,” Captain Jungwirth informs her dispassionately. She looks up again and finds that his features remain inscrutable. “But it was Lord Corden’s act of generosity that prompted my offer. He has offered to host me and introduce me to the region, whilst I follow through on some…local prospects.”

“Oh?” Harriet asks. She already dislikes this man for two reasons: he’s obviously dull enough to have bored Louise half to death on their long journey, and he’s obviously not clever enough to appreciate Louise’s sense of humour (for there were surely dozens of jokes made at his expense, none of which seem to have affected his overall confidence amongst present company). “Are you looking to purchase the fastest coach in the North?” she mockingly guesses. Louise has pulled back so that only her hand is touching Harriet, who suddenly feels the cold seeping up through her shoes.

Captain Jungwirth blinks at her and then turns to look significantly at Louise, who is looking out into the forest behind them. “Something like that,” he says. Harriet watches Louise’s jaw clench. She wishes Louise’s face was still on her shoulder so that she could feel the clench of her jaw like a bite. She loses herself to studying those lovely features that she hasn’t seen in so long, forgetting there’s anyone around them.

“No, I insist,” a voice says, a bland voice, Captain Jungwirth’s voice. Harriet realises that he has been speaking for some time whilst she smiled at Louise, and Louise frowned at the horizon. Louise looks _distressed_ , she suddenly sees. _Why?_ “Any friend of Miss Tomlinson’s is a friend of mine.”

That catches Harriet’s attention. She looks up, hoping Captain Jungwirth isn’t claiming her friendship before she has even deemed him worthy of the words, _pleased to meet you_.

Unfortunately, he’s looking at her or, rather, looking up and down her mud-stained dress. The faint sneer of disapproval on his face would make Harriet feel ashamed if it were coming from anyone who didn’t claim to own _the fastest thing on four wheels_.

Turning back to the coach, Captain Jungwirth says, “You must bring Lady Julia home as quick as can be, and my coach is as quick as can be. I absolutely trust you to care for her properly. The coach, that is. Or Lady Julia as well, I suppose.”

Harriet presses her hands to her own chest, horrified. If only this man were _trying_ to be funny.

Lord Corden begins to speak, but Captain Jungwirth has the audacity to cut him off and continue. Louise’s hand squeezes tighter around Harriet’s upper arm, as though she, too, is suffering from the shock of his rudeness. “You must simply have my driver bring Miss Tomlinson home first, however.”

“No, I can walk with you and Miss Styles!” Louise says, louder than she intended, if the blanching of her cheeks is any indication.

Captain Jungwirth steps toward Louise, silent and meaningful. He is no taller than Harriet, she notices, though she feels imposed upon nonetheless. He lowers his voice just loud enough to evoke intimacy without actually creating privacy and says, “Miss Tomlinson, as much as I wish to spend the rest of the day with you, I know that I must be selfless. You must immediately get home to your sisters. I know how much _Lottie_ and _Fizzy_ and the others must be _desperate_ to see you.”

Harriet is irritated that he would mistake Louise’s enthusiasm for her company as enthusiasm for his. She also wonders why he knows Louise’s sisters’ names, why he’s making such a tactless display of using Louise’s own affectionate names for them, and why he’s putting Louise in the awkward position of having her reunion with her family prioritised over bringing the exhausted, older, and far more powerful Lady Julia back to her estate.

It almost seems as though he’s trying to publicly establish his intimacy with Louise or to insinuate himself into her family. But out of all the wealthier, more noble families represented in this group, why should he be working so hard to establish his closeness to _Louise?_ It’s something a suitor would do.

_Oh_ , Harriet thinks, her stomach sinking in horror faster than her thoughts can travel over the past several minutes.

Lady Julia is speaking again, but Harriet’s attention is limited to the somber tilt to Louise’s bowed head as she releases Harriet’s arm and steps away. Her heart aches for her friend, an enormous range of sympathetic emotions raging through her: embarrassment under the clumsy attentions of this man, frustration at being stuck in his brutal company for hours on end, bewilderment as to which of her charms _this_ man has been lured by, shame in her not being able to shun him outright because _everyone_ knows that she doesn’t have brighter prospects knocking down her door, and sadness for being separated from her friend.

Separated— _but for how long?_ Harriet thinks frantically. Surely Louise wouldn’t actually marry this fool. Surely he hasn’t yet proposed, or he would already have fled to hide the wound of rejection.

Just moments ago, Harriet was surging under the press and promise of Louise’s flesh against hers, but now she’s being forced to imagine this _Captain_ stealing Louise away from her forever, to his—ship? barracks? She has never been able to tell the difference between army and navy uniforms, and oh, god, she can’t believe Louise would marry someone before Harriet even knew whether he was in the army or the navy!

Beside the coach, further negotiations are being made, but all Harriet can hear is Louise as she turns to give a warm, encouraging smile and murmurs, “I shall come to visit soon.” She tips the book in her arms—Harriet’s sketchbook, which she must have picked up from the ground—toward Harriet, like a ransom, like a promise.

Harriet feels instantly reassured, even as she tries to resist the feeling: _she_ should be making _Louise_ feel better, not the other way around. But all she wants, truly, is to see Louise soon, have her close soon, _alone_ , nothing else matters. Seeing that Louise shares the same investment in this goal makes Harriet forget everything but the curve of Louise’s lips and the watery blue of her eyes. _I will kiss you,_ Harriet thinks, the words beating strongly in her chest like the words _I will rescue you_ would.

Louise disappears behind the coach, and in the next moment, it is making its _fast_ way down the road, leaving Harriet standing alone with Captain Jungwirth.

It is immediately uncomfortable, and Harriet’s struck by the thought that of every possible arrangement of potential escorts, this is by far the most improper. Lord Corden is an older, married man, and Louise is a girl just as herself; it would not be peculiar in the slightest to be seen walking alone with either of them. Captain Jungwirth’s sense of logic (which seemed entirely based on proving his devotion to Louise by reuniting her with her sisters and completing the task of walking her friend home) outranks any sense of propriety, apparently.

At least she senses no peculiar intentions from him toward herself. As they walk, she senses that she could be a child, a dog, a stray ribbon that Louise had dropped, and he would treat her with the same disinterest. She is a means to an end, his only goal is to win Louise’s affections.

It’s the only thing about him that Harriet can relate to.

She nods solemnly to herself as they walk in silence. What a shame that she can understand any part of this unfortunate man’s mind.

“Are you a friend of Miss Tomlinson’s?”

The question startles Harriet first because of his jarring tone after minutes of silence, and then second because of the implication that he doesn’t know of her friendship with Louise. Could he really have heard about Lottie and Fizzy but not a word about Harriet?

“Yes,” she says. The word draws out awkwardly long, slowed down by the rush of blood to her face as she realises how much _less_ than the truth that is. She and Louise are so much more than friends.

A few more moments of silence pass, during which Harriet frowns at her feet, wondering if Louise would really keep her a secret from her acquaintances. If so, was it because of how insufficient the word “friend” feels to say? Or because her excitement in talking of her friend would make her seem less available to potential suitors? Harriet tries not to flatter herself, but she feels her face grow hotter just imagining these things.

“Miss Eleanor Calder, you know, of Turney Abbey in Somerset,” Captain Jungwirth begins, without confirming that Harriet does, indeed, know of Miss Eleanor Calder and without noticing that the name puts a sour expression on Harriet’s face, “told me of Miss Tomlinson’s social connections.”

Harriet doesn’t understand what he’s getting at. “Louise is dreadfully agreeable company,” she offers darkly, imagining Louise lighting up a room with laughter at some idiotic thing Miss Calder has said. But Harriet’s surprised to find that the bitter jealousy she expects to feel at the image is replaced by simple delight at the memory of what Louise looks like when she laughs. Harriet loves her so dearly.

“I did not realise how… _diverse_ Miss Tomlinson’s social circle would be.”

Captain Jungwirth’s tone makes it sound like an insult, which is completely disorientating. She can’t think why her inclusion in Louise’s social circle should be a detriment. Perhaps, as a soldier, he lived on a salary and resented people who inherited land. (Though, Harriet thinks to herself, _her_ family doesn’t spend money on expensive, fast coaches.) That can’t be it, though, because he was perfectly polite to the Cordens (or as polite as his obviously stunted manners allowed him to be).

Harriet decides he must be speaking generally, that the insult she heard was just the ugliness in his voice shining through. She laughs nervously. “Yes, she does maintain a wide variety of friendships,” she says, thinking it strange that Captain Jungwirth doesn’t realise that _he_ is at the furthest outer reaches of Louise’s social circle.

But something about what she says must catch Captain Jungwirth’s attraction. He turns his head as they walk as though to study her, and Harriet keeps her gaze down to avoid any eye contact. Eventually, he declares, “I hope to make my intentions known to Miss Tomlinson within a fortnight.”

An even mixture of anxiety (at the prospect of Louise marrying) and amusement (at its improbability) float high in Harriet’s stomach, making her giggle nervously again.

“You laugh,” Captain Jungwirth points out, and Harriet stops laughing, which makes him peer at her closely, squinting almost suspiciously. Harriet lengthens her stride and nearly laughs again at how this _soldier_ has to quicken the pace of his short legs just to keep up with her. “Miss Tomlinson has hinted at there being someone else with a claim to her affections.”

Harriet stumbles on a rock, and her heart starts racing; she’s not sure which happens first, though. All she knows is that _she_ is the person with a claim to Louise’s affections. _She_ is the person Louise refers to in attempts to deflect unwanted attention. What an astounding thing to know: that Louise, in a way, considers herself betrothed to Harriet!

“Has she?” she asks, unable to keep her grin from shaping her voice into something giddy.

“Yes, however,” Captain Jungwirth says, his voice suddenly menacing, “she would not tell me the gentleman’s name, nor whether he is a _gentleman_ at all.”

The smile slides off Harriet’s face in a cold wash of fear. He looks accusingly over at her, but how could he know? How could this stupid, tactless, unobservant brute of a man _know_ that she is the person with such a hold over Louise’s affections?

Harriet can’t breathe. She feels threatened, but she doesn’t even know with what. She feels terrified, even though she doesn’t know what she has to be afraid of. What would it really mean if he knew that Louise was using her friend as an excuse to avoid his proposals? If his comment about the _diversity_ of Louise’s company was an insult about Harriet being a girl who spends hours every day dreaming about kissing another girl? If he could somehow see into Harriet’s mind and uncover all the things she wants to do to Louise? She can’t think of a single thing he could do with this information, she doesn’t know if it’s the kind of thing someone could get into trouble for, but she can, in her heart, feel the indistinct yet very real threat that he could do _something_ to keep Louise away from her, and it’s the worst fate that Harriet can imagine.

Her ears are ringing as Captain Jungwirth speaks again. “Surely you must be able to give me his name. Don’t you working girls know all the gossip there is to know?”

Harriet stops in her tracks. _Working girl?_ “Sorry?”

A few steps ahead of her, Captain Jungwirth halts and turns to scowl at her, now looking about as threatening as a ruffled duck. “I know you lot...all you do is talk. Tell me the man’s name.”

Laughter comes bubbling uncontrollably from Harriet’s mouth. She covers it with her hand, but it’s no use. He has mistaken her for a working girl! No wonder he confessed surprise at her friendship with Louise, seemed unconcerned with the effect his escort would have on her reputation, and showed so little interest in conversing with her.

“If it’s a matter of payment—”

Harriet has to start walking swiftly to keep her laughter from building up to an explosion. How silly a man, to draw such conclusions from a little bit of mud and a little bit of teasing—to ignore so easily the details of the fineness of the clothes beneath that mud, her etiquette and speech, the very fact that Lord Corden knew her well enough to tease her at all!

She has never been the subject of such a mistake before. Perhaps she should feel affronted, but her amusement is matched only by an odd sense of pride. Does she really look so wild? Can strangers look at her and see that she’s not a perfect, accomplished young woman who dreams of nothing but marriage? Do they know that everything making her seem less than polished—the mud, the flush in her cheek, her windblown hair, her laughter, her comfort walking in the woods alone miles from home—is all because of loving Louise? Does _Louise_ see that?

“I just want to look my competitor in the eye,” Captain Jungwirth says boldly, seemingly on the tail end of some dismissably boring explanation.

But Harriet keeps walking, lengthening her step even further to watch him struggle harder to keep up. She looks over at him until he finally looks back, giving her the respect he clearly doesn’t find working girls worthy of.

“Harry,” she says.

“Harry?” he pants.

“His name is Harry. That’s all I know about him.”

They crest the hill above Harriet’s family’s estate while Captain Jungwirth mumbles to himself about Harolds, Harrys, nicknames, stations, and captains’ salaries. Harriet hopes he spends the entire fortnight looking for this Harry and never finds the time to bother Louise any further with his attentions.

As they near the house, Captain Jungwirth grows quiet, his head craning at an angle to take in the sight. Harriet’s home isn’t nearly as striking nor as large as the Cordens’ manor, but it must be impressive to a navy-or-army captain. “You work here?” he asks, sounding warmer toward her than he has in the past half-hour.

“I live here,” Harriet says, more a compromise than a correction. She wishes Louise were here to laugh with her as she walks up to the entrance. She can’t wait to tell Louise all about this. Will Louise visit tonight? Her stomach drops at the thought.

“Should you not go round to the back?” Captain Jungwirth asks. Harriet can hear the spark of uncertainty in his voice, as though he has started to realise that something is not quite right.

Harriet shrugs. “The only thing my mother, Lady Elizabeth Styles, would like less than me coming home covered in mud, escorted by a strange young man, is me coming home covered in mud, escorted by a strange young man, and sneaking in the back door like I’ve something to hide.”

She looks at him just to watch his jaw drop. Then the first real, discernible expression she has seen on his face develops before her eyes: a sickly sweet smile. “Miss Styles,” he says, his tone as overbearing as when he had insisted Louise return to her sisters.

“Captain,” she says, bowing her head only slightly and omitting his name as she turns, thinking they have said their goodbyes.

“Miss Styles,” he says again. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I have made any lasting commitments to Miss Tomlinson.”

Harriet wishes she could convey her disgust at his impudence in thinking that he could hold any interest for her after insulting her, offering to pay her money in exchange for her friend’s secrets, transforming his demeanor so obviously when he discovered she had money of her own, and then degrading Louise by making it so transparent that he hopes simply to marry into the largest sum of money that he can possibly scheme his way into.

She chooses to walk away without another word and takes some small pleasure in closing the door in his face.

~~~

But closing the door in his face doesn’t succeed in making Captain Jungwirth disappear altogether.

“Who was that you so rudely failed to invite in?” “Ah, yes, Captain Jungwirth. I’ve heard he’s a very steady gentleman.” “Lady Julia mentioned him in her latest letter.” “Did you know that he’s likely to propose to Miss Tomlinson?” “Poor girl, I’m sure she’ll be very relieved.” “Really, Harriet, I don’t think it’s kind to your friend to expect her to wait for someone more _handsome_.”

Harriet tries to wash away her exasperation at her mother’s foolishness by scrubbing out the mud from her riding habit; helping Martha with the laundering is the least she can do. However, she spends ten minutes on one particular splatter before giving up the endeavour and passing it sheepishly over to Martha.

She finds other matters on which to focus. When she bathes, she thinks, _this is the last time I’ll bathe before holding Louise close enough to smell me_.

When she eats, she thinks, _this is what my breath will taste of when I kiss Louise_. She tries to eat only sweet things. Louise loves sweets.

When she settles in bed, she thinks, _this is how Louise will find me if she visits tonight,_ and she pulls the covers down low and inviting.

Louise arrives the following morning, but she does not come alone.

“Good morning, Mr. Crawley, Mrs. Crawley. Miss Tomlinson. And, I presume, Mr. Jungwirth?” Harriet’s mother nods in greeting to each of the figures crowding her drawing room doorway as she names them. Allowing her mother to perform all the pleasantries, Harriet merely stands at her side, staring. Louise’s face is flushed pink with February cold, but her head remains bowed, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Harriet begins to worry that something is wrong. Perhaps the looming threat of Captain Jungwirth’s proposal is troubling Louise more than she was able to let on yesterday. Harriet wants to go to her, kiss her, and free her from her troubles. If only Louise would just _look_ at her.

At last, Louise’s eyes flicker over to Harriet, their colour dark under lowered lashes. It strikes Harriet’s heart so hard that she takes a step backward, clutching a hand over the flash of heat in her belly. In the next moment, it’s over, Louise’s gaze now fixed on her own fiddling hands. But, oh, how Harriet wants to be looked at like that for hours on end. She wants the burn of Louise’s hot glare all over her body. Just that single moment’s glance made Harriet feel naked, as though Louise could see through her clothes to the sweat forming beneath her breasts. Harriet wants to bare herself and let Louise look through her skin into her bones, through her eyes into her filthy, wanton thoughts.

“Certainly, Harriet would be overjoyed to join you,” Harriet’s mother’s voice interjects into Harriet’s musings, startling her. Join them? Where? No, wherever it is, Harriet would much rather stay here and keep Louise as well.

“Join whom, where?” Harriet asks, her words floating like lost petals in the air.

“Oh, my dear Miss Styles, you do still live in the clouds, don’t you?” Mr. Crawley asks, his voice full of humour. “I don’t believe you’ve changed one bit since, when was it, the summer since we’ve last seen you?”

Harriet nods, mustering a smile at the ginger-haired man and his elegantly dressed wife. She should be more excited to see the Crawleys, she has always looked up to the eldest of Lord Corden’s daughters and the man she married five years ago, Mr. Crawley in particular is kind and easy to talk to. They visit the Cordens from time to time, so Harriet supposes they arrived yesterday as well.

“I disagree.” Harriet’s heart leaps as she looks again to Louise, whose voice commands the room as easily as any man’s. Louise looks right into her eyes as she says, “I think Miss Styles seems much older than she did when I left.” Harriet’s face heats under the compliment and the fact that Louise felt compelled to speak up in defense of her maturity. But then Louise’s gaze drags lower, slowly, down the length of her torso, making her feel naked and light-headed. Louise thinks she _looks_ older. Harriet had suspected as much; in the past few weeks, she has felt more swollen in some places and more tapered in others, but she couldn’t be sure that anything was really growing besides her _awareness_ of such places, brought on by the potential of them being touched by Louise. With the way that Louise is looking at her right now, it seems that the changes were, in fact, physical. So much is said in just the way that Louise looks at her. And yet so little! Are their interactions always to be limited by the presence of other people? Harriet wants nothing more than for Louise to name and touch all the changes that have shaped her body in the weeks of her absence.

“She’s certainly old enough to come riding with us,” Mrs. Crawley says, drawing Louise’s gaze away from Harriet’s body yet again. “Come now, Miss Styles, Louise had us come all this way to ask you to join us. You won’t disappoint us, will you?”

The pieces of the puzzle fall quickly into place. Harriet can imagine it all: Captain Jungwirth bullying Louise into joining him and the Crawleys on an unwanted couples’ morning ride, Louise proposing to invite Harriet in order to transform it from a couples’ outing into a young people’s outing.

“Of course I’ll join you,” she finally replies, watching carefully for the slackening of Louise’s jaw in relief. “I’ll just need a moment, to change.”

“Wonderful,” Captain Jungwirth says, the sound of his voice drawing looks of contempt from both Mr. and Mrs. Crawley. Louise might not be the only one desperate for a change in company.

Harriet moves to excuse herself from the room, but she takes her time, hoping that Louise will offer to assist her. She so desperately wants to speak with her. But Louise merely gives her one final, heated look, her lower lip caught under the line of her teeth, before turning back to the group.

Once Harriet is ready, the five of them ride their horses up the hill and toward the woods. Mrs. Crawley hangs back with her, asking after her family, and Harriet answers as best she can while being distracted by her view of Louise riding before her, tantalisingly out of reach. She is further distracted by pity for the horse that Captain Jungwirth is riding with an astonishing lack of skill. It must be the navy, then.

“Tell me, Captain Jungwirth,” Harriet shouts with a voice made weak by her surprise at her own courage. “Have you ridden in Mr. Crawley’s coach? I have heard tales of its speed, and I wonder how it compares to yours?”

Captain Jungwirth launches into a speech about his coach that must pass for impassioned by his standards as Mr. Crawley turns his head to send Harriet a look of betrayal and his wife a look of pleading. Mrs. Crawley, with much more control over her horse than Captain Jungwirth can claim, hastens to catch up with her husband and lend him her moral support during the imminent political debate about the pros and cons of four horses or two.

And Louise, just as Harriet planned, is free to linger behind.

But Louise doesn’t linger. She keeps on riding at the same pace as the rest of them, leaving no room for private conversation.

“ _Louise_ ,” Harriet whispers, trying to get her point across, since apparently it wasn’t clear that she would only ever talk about coaches in hopes of speaking with Louise in private.

When Louise ignores her, though, Harriet speeds Puck into a trot until they’re side by side. “Louise,” she hisses, quieter now that they’re closer. “My love.”

“Don’t,” is all Louise says, eyes locked on her reins.

The reprimand makes Harriet’s stomach hollow out in shame. It always does, but _especially_ coming from Louise and _especially_ when she’s finally aware of how desperately in love she is. “Don’t what?” she asks, fearing the worst, fearing things so awful that she can’t even put words to them.

“Don’t tell me he’s insufferable. I know he is...he’s a misery.”

Harriet had no intention of talking about Captain Jungwirth, but that must be what Louise was expecting to be confronted about this morning. “Yes,” she says simply, trying to sound supportive. All she wants to do is to touch Louise, but if Louise wants to talk, she can do that.

But Louise doesn’t say anything further, nor does she reach out to touch Harriet. After a moment of looking with longing at the graceful bow of her head and the lovely arch of her lashes, Harriet realises that there’s a tear sliding down the side of Louise’s face.

She immediately dismounts from her horse and runs over to Louise’s, clutching the side of the saddle and running to keep up. She would clasp Louise’s knee if she could, but her legs are both on the opposite side of the saddle. “Darling, what’s the matter?” she begs, as though begging for her own soul.

“I’m just so…,” Louise sniffs. “ _Scared_.” And then it all comes rushing out, as though she’s been holding it back all morning, or even longer. “I’m terrified of what my life will be like if he proposes! But I’m equally scared of what will happen if he _doesn’t_. If I can’t entice a man so loathsome as that, do I stand any chance at all?”

At last, Harriet has the chance to comfort Louise, to apologise, to make up for all the times that she’s blindly used Louise’s comfort without giving anything back. “Everything will be all right,” she says emphatically.

“I don’t want to marry him, I would rather die than listen to him talk of coaches every morning. But what a black mark if I should turn him down! Would my family even let me back home?”

“Those who love you would not want you to be unhappy,” Harriet insists, struggling to breathe as she runs alongside the horse’s steady stride.

“I’m just—I’m terrified, Harriet,” Louise admits, letting go of the reins with one gloved hand to wipe her face. Harriet wishes she could reach so far up, but instead, she grabs the reins and tries to pull the horse to a stop. Finally, Louise meets her eyes. “And all it makes me want to do is climb into your bed and never go out into the light of day ever again.”

Harriet tugs at as much of Louise’s dress as she can get between her fists. She could faint, she’s so excited and relieved to hear Louise making any reference to Harriet’s bed, but she forces herself to stay in control. “But you look so beautiful in the sunlight,” she whispers, trying to say anything that will make Louise smile.

And Louise does smile—laughs, even, if it’s not a sob, while wiping away another tear. “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses.

The weight of it fills Harriet’s palm more thickly than the leather of the reins. She doesn’t know what Louise should do either, but she knows what she wants her to do. “Come, let me hold you,” she answers.

Louise eyes her warily for just a moment before hopping off the saddle. Her horse wanders away, and it’s only then that Harriet realises she’s entirely lost track of Puck. Oh, well. Louise stands before her now, upright and perfect and waiting.

As soon as their bodies touch, Harriet feels the core of her very self tumbling down and away, like loose stones in a wildly flooded stream. She loses her footing as she loses her breath, stumbling forward into Louise, who always, always catches her and keeps her grounded. Only now, Louise gives softly all around her, plush as silk but warm as flesh and lovelier still.

Harriet opens her mouth against the column of Louise’s neck, immediately deciding that she’ll never breathe again unless she’s breathing the fragrant air from this very spot, this place that tastes more like home against her lips and tongue than anything has ever felt. “Louise,” she cries, already compelled to beg for forgiveness for wanting so much so fiercely.

“Harriet,” Louise whispers, so quietly that the solemn tones barely ring out.

Harriet draws her closer, arms wrapping tightly around the straight line of her back, curling it to her touch. “Forgive me for being so selfish,” Harriet says, mouth trained on Louise’s neck, tongue licking across her pulse, nose smashed to ruin against her jaw. She’s not sure if she’s apologising for her years of not realising or her current inability to comfort Louise in any way but wanting her desperately.

A gust of a sound rushes out from Louise’s mouth, as though she’s been struck. Harriet wants to breathe her breath, but it takes a herculean effort to draw her mouth away from its new home, this dewy, perfect patch of mineral-tasting skin. “Harry.” Louise’s voice breaks against Harriet’s mouth. Her eyes are shut, or near enough to shut that Harriet can’t tell the difference in the drape of her eyelashes. Now Harriet wants to kiss them, too, but Louise’s lips— “If I start kissing you now, I won’t be able to stop,” Louise’s sigh interrupts, like it’s a bad thing. A warning, a plea.

“Then don’t stop,” Harriet whispers against the lips she’s dreamt of for weeks, months, _years_. The lips she’ll die if she doesn’t have this very moment.

Louise makes a snagging sound, like a breath between tears, and Harriet takes the opportunity to fit her lips into the gap left behind. 

Her blood surges even as Louise’s mouth falls slack and open under her. She tastes just like Harriet remembered: salty, wet, full, heady.

“Harry,” Louise whispers again, except this time, Harriet gets to taste the name falling from her lips, and it lights a fire deep in her body that’s already threatening to burn her entire life down. Louise makes fists of the flesh of Harriet’s arms and moves them step by step, leading Harriet in a dance she doesn’t know but is hungry to learn. Instead of gravity, Harriet feels Louise’s arms—and then suddenly the air grows cooler, a hush falling over them. Harriet manages to open her eyes just enough to see a thick canopy of branches and leaves above them. Louise has driven them both past the line of trees and into the forest, out of the daylight, out of sight.

Harriet kisses her again when she realises where they are. When she realises she’s half-won the battle against Louise’s awareness of other people and other troubles. 

“You don’t understand,” she whimpers against Harriet’s lips.

“I do,” Harriet protests, driven by some base pride in the fact that she _does_ understand, finally. She’s worked _hard_ to understand, and now she just wants to enjoy the fruits of her labour, the fruits of Louise’s lips.

Louise’s voice takes on a cutting edge as her hands draw bunches of Harriet’s skirt up and into her palms, making Harriet feel like something worth coveting. “You don’t. I’ll do _mad_ things, absolutely _mad_ things,” she bites out in between Harriet’s kisses. There’s resistance in her body that only makes Harriet want to break through the levee and bring all of Louise’s feelings crashing out onto her. Harriet has never been more sure that she’s doing the right thing than she is now. “I’ll kiss you right here for anyone to see,” Louise grinds on. “I’ll take you here, under the sunlight, and kiss you until it’s moonlight.”

With her eyes closed against the rush of overwhelming sensation brought on by these promises or threats, Harriet is solely aware of the taste of Louise’s breath. “What’s wrong with that?”

She lets her brow drop to Louise’s. The brush of their hair against her skin grounds her in the moment, and then there’s the singing of the birds above them, celebrating them being reunited at last. The trees above hush every other noise and don’t say a word of judgment themselves.

Eventually, like a sigh, Louise admits, “Nothing.”

Harriet holds Louise’s neck in her hand for their next kiss. Louise’s tongue filling her mouth takes her by surprise, and she feels herself open, and open more, asking, sucking, wanting.

“They’ll lock me up for sure,” Louise says, but no, no one can ever lock Louise up because Harriet _needs_ her, needs her like _this_. She needs Louise bearing down and bringing her close, grabbing her body and bringing her to life.

The world nearly falls out from under her when Louise grabs her leg and hoists it up, but then Louise has _got_ her, tight and close, one hand climbing up the inside of Harriet’s dress and grabbing up high, so high that Harriet loses her breath, gasping and letting Louise kiss and nip all across her face and neck. _Louise wants to_ , is the thought she finds herself sinking into. Louise just keeps touching her _leg,_ and it feels so perfect and good to be wanted and to want.

“Harriet,” Louise hisses like a last warning that Harriet will absolutely ignore. She has two hands, too, and she uses one of them to pull Louise’s skirt up over her knee so that finally—

The heat of Louise’s thigh between her legs, pressed close and firm because Louise is holding her just so, nudging her up and down Louise’s leg—It’s too much. Harriet cries and collapses a little, giving more of her weight to Louise, who manages to hold her steady. “God... _Harriet_ ,” Louise shudders. Harriet feels the world bursting around her at the touch of Louise’s skin against hers, as she tightens her legs around the touch and rubs until everything is slick and hot. She feels like she could stay here forever. She feels like this bliss can’t last another second without her heart giving out.

“There you go, my love, my darling,” Louise murmurs into her ear, kneading her hip, petting the back of her neck. Somehow, she’s everywhere, Harriet’s whole world. It feels so _right_ , even as consciousness of the world trickles back to her in minor fits and starts. Harriet clutches at Louise’s collarbone for purchase, her fingers finding a chain there that she pulls, testing her newly returned eyesight to find the single pearl drop that’s been hidden in the bosom of Louise’s dress.

“The pearl I sent you,” she sighs, clutching it in the palm of her hand.

Louise’s eyes remain closed. She mouths at the air blindly, perhaps searching for Harriet’s mouth. “The pearl I kissed every night.”

Harriet shifts, shocked at the wetness she’s left on Louise’s hip and aching inside at the sound of Louise groaning hungrily at the movement. “Louise,” she says, not sure what she’s asking—just that she’s asking and sure that Louise will answer.

But a harsh cry from an upset horse startles Harriet into falling so heavily that even Louise can’t save her from tumbling to the soft, leaf-strewn earth.

“ _Miss Styles!_ ” calls a voice from beyond the thin veil of trees.

“ _Miss Tomlinson!_ ” calls another. _Captain Jungwirth’s_ voice, Harriet realises. Judging by Louise’s countenance—somewhere between regretful and afraid—she must realise it, too.

“They’re looking for us,” Louise says, turning toward the clearing.

“Let them,” Harriet says, slipping through mud whilst trying to hoist herself upright.

“They’ll find us.” Louise’s voice is disturbingly even, like the calm surface of a dark pool.

“But I want—we haven’t even _talked_ —Louise, I love—”

“ _Miss Tomlinson, is that you?_ ” Before Harriet can say another word, Mrs. Crawley is peering at them, coming as close as she can without dragging her horse through branches and bramble.

Louise turns around fully to face the search party, movements bright and quick as ever. “Yes, thank heavens! Can you believe it, Mrs. Crawley, our horses both startled in fright and threw us to the ground!”

A great deal of fuss ensues, with Harriet struggling to stand, mud all over her gown and one leg gone numb from Louise’s firm grip.

“We found them grazing halfway across the meadow!”

“Dear Miss Tomlinson, are you all right? You look like you’ve had such a fright!”

“Are you both safe? Should I call for a doctor?”

Louise’s voice rings bright as a bell in Harriet’s mind. “No, we’re both just fine. We sat down and checked ourselves for injuries.”

“I’m not surprised!” That’s Captain Jungwirth’s voice, grating and ignorant. “I’ve been thrown by many a horse in my time. They’re such unpredictable creatures!”

He really must be the worst rider Harriet has ever met. She notices Louise’s fingers fiddling in the air behind her waist. Harriet reaches out to touch them and is glad to see a touch of a smile on Louise’s mouth—which is redder than usual and wet from Harriet’s mouth.

Her stomach drops again. She wants to bring Louise back home with her.

“We should return,” Harriet proposes. Three heads turn toward her, as though only just realising that she’s been standing there this whole time, just a few feet away from them.

“Yes,” Louise agrees, looking cautiously at Harriet, tucking the pearl back into the front of her dress with meaningful care. “We should go back together.”

The protests and debate amongst the rest of the group and the whinnying of the impatient horses all sound as distant as the birdsong above. Louise’s eyes meet hers with longing and intent, and her hand lingers on her breast like a promise.

They will go back to Harriet’s room together. No matter how uncertain everything else is, this they are both sure of.

~~~

Louise sleeps in Harriet’s bed that night, but it’s not like every other time they’ve shared it. Harriet gets to taste the dawn-flavoured inside of her mouth, gets to touch the soft, wet folds between Louise’s legs—softer still than the petals of the hyacinths in the garden. She rests her head on Louise’s bare chest and listens to her heartbeat. She buries her face in the sweat-damp hairs under her arm, marvelling at the heat of her skin. Her mouth waters at every kiss.

“I found your drawings,” Louise whispers. Harriet wishes there was light enough to read the thoughts on her face.

“What drawings?”

Louise tugs playfully at her hair. “The ones you drew of me, you silly thing.”

Harriet is too blissfully happy to pay any mind to the sinking feeling of dread that would normally overcome her upon realising that she had left her most private drawings in the book of garden sketches that Louise had taken yesterday. “Oh, those drawings.” She muffles her words against the flesh of Louise’s arm.

“I wasn’t sure I believed you, not until I saw them. I had only hoped.”

Harriet chews her lip, sinking into the reassuring weight of Louise’s hand combing through her hair. “How long had you hoped?”

“Goodness.” Louise twists out from under her, only to face her and lay her hand on the bare swell of Harriet’s hip. There’s something comforting to Harriet about being able to taste and feel the sharp damp of her breath, even though they can’t see one another. “That’s difficult to say. Longer than I knew, I think.”

“Sometimes I think I’ve hoped of this for longer than I’ve been alive,” Harriet interjects, earning a thumb across her cheek, feeling for the smile that’s been permanently etched there by her happiness.

She tastes the soft exhalation of Louise’s laughter. “I remember last spring, when you fell into a pond trying to catch a frog, and I pulled you out. You were drenched to the bone and smelled terrible, you had water lilies in your hair, and I—well, I remember thinking, _I’m in love with Harriet._ ”

Even as the memory of sunshine and Louise’s cloak around her shoulders fills Harriet with buzzing warmth, there’s something grave settling over them both now that the words touch the air. “I’m in love with you, too,” Harriet whispers, just to seal their fate together with the night as their witness. Being in love means wanting a life together—a life that won’t be possible when either of them is married. “We’ll sort it out,” Harriet promises blindly, rolling onto her back and bringing Louise on top of her, between her legs, every inch of her in range of her hands. “We’ll stay young forever.” She tickles Louise’s ribs until she giggles and twists above her, and then Harriet holds on tight to the soft curves of her rump, digging her fingers in quite greedily.

“Let’s,” Louise agrees, pressing her smile against Harriet’s own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, here is the final chapter. I wanted to make note of the fact that the origin story of this fic was my interest in the ways historical gay people managed to find their own kinds of happiness within the constraints of their societies. Because of that, it means so very much to me that some of you have been reading this despite not being in this fandom! I treasure your readership <3 I'm actually nervous to post this chapter, even though I am proud of it, because it can be an unpopular opinion to prioritize exploring historically accurate characters over certain things that this fandom prizes. But here we go! It has been an honor to share it with you. Thank you so much for reading!

Harriet has never read a novel in which the heroine asked her brother to marry, yet never be a husband, to her best friend. Thus, she has no good idea of how to make such a request of Liam. Should she tell him everything and hope he feels sympathetic enough to support their schemes? Should she manipulate him into doing his sister’s will by reminding him of all the times he cruelly pulled her hair as a child? Should she be disingenuous and convince him to fall in love with Louise, then leave him to find out that Louise could never love him back until it was too late? Or should it be a business proposal?

She doesn’t mention any of these options to Louise because she doesn't want to give Louise false hope until she has secured the marriage proposal, at which point Louise can accept or deny however she likes.

Liam returns from some business in Bradford on Tuesday, but Harriet doesn’t muster up the courage to corner him in his study until Wednesday afternoon. Of course, Louise is the one to inspire this courage, without even knowing it.

“And what business is it that takes you away to Bradford so often, of all places?” Louise asks him, the laughter in her voice suggesting teasing rather than true curiosity. “Or is it simply that you tend to lose your way on the road to Japan?”

Liam blushes as the girls laugh at him, likely remembering, as they are, the appallingly bad geography lesson he attempted to give in this very drawing room some months ago. “I’ve no business in Japan,” he says plainly, which isn’t an answer at all. In fact, Harriet would suspect it’s an outright evasion, if she didn’t doubt her brother’s ability to use words in such a clever way.

“Really,” Louise says, throwing balls of tangled embroidery floss at Liam’s back without lifting her head from Harriet’s lap. “I can’t imagine what could so often pull you away from such _pleasant_ company as you have here.”

Liam raises a hand to shield himself from the worst of Louise’s blows and makes to leave, which Harriet realises is Louise’s goal, for now that they can kiss whenever they find a moment alone, they seek every opportunity to find such moments.

But for once, Harriet’s mind is filled with more than calculations of when the next time she can kiss Louise might be.

Liam does seem to enjoy the freedom of an unmarried lifestyle. Perhaps the most persuasive argument to make to him is that Louise would be the only possible wife to not care at all about where Liam spends his time, or to demand that he stay home, or anything of the sort. He could simply continue to pursue his interests, whatever they may be—and the more Harriet thinks about it, the more deeply she realises that she has no understanding of Liam’s ambitions, that maybe he would be quite happy to find purpose in helping to sustain his sister’s happiness.

Just when she is about to rise and follow her brother to the study, Liam’s own departure is delayed by their mother coming in with an announcement. “A Captain—Captain—do you know, I can’t recall his name? Well, some sort of Captain is here to speak with you, Liam.”

“Captain _Jungwirth_?” Harriet and Louise both say, startled into total synchronicity. They exchange glances of horror and confusion, knowing that it must be Captain Jungwirth at the door, for no other face or name could be so easy to forget.

Liam sends them a suspicious scowl before leaving the room, and with Harriet’s mother taking his place, there’s nothing to do but wait and fret in silence about what on earth Captain Jungwirth could be playing at. Harriet clutches Louise’s hand and wishes that, through her touch, she could distract Louise from being aware of the distressing existence of Captain Jungwirth at all. He’s been so blissfully absent from their minds in the past several days of happiness. Perhaps he has attempted to call on Louise, but Louise has been unable to receive such calls as she has been spending nearly all her time in Harriet’s gardens, drawing room, and bed.

Harriet’s resolve grows in strength as Louise’s hand squeezes hers in return, crushing her fingers.

Fortunately, Harriet only has to avoid Liam’s study for twenty minutes before she hears the sounds of Captain Jungwirth being escorted out.

“Wait for me,” Harriet whispers, looking into Louise’s eyes until her confusion turns to a sweet, patient smile.

She finds Liam standing at his desk, right where she expected him to be, but he’s looking out the study’s window with a pensive look on his face, which is not where she would expect such a thing to be. Still, she decides to rush into her argument before she has a chance to lose her courage.

“Hello, Liam,” she begins in a friendly, conversational manner, not at all like a person who was recently rolling up embroidery floss so that it could be thrown at his head. “I was just thinking, and, well, I know how much you enjoy your trips to Bradford. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could continue to take them?”

Liam turns to look at her abruptly, mouth agape with an incredulity that Harriet was not expecting. “Are you—are you _blackmailing_ me?” he asks, sounding as though he finds the idea equal parts funny and unexpected.

Harriet squints, frantically trying to recall her intended argument before she was so strangely misinterpreted. “Of course not!” This is her one chance to get everything she’s ever wanted, and she’s starting on the wrong foot. “What could I possibly even blackmail you with?” she asks, before realising that the question itself makes her sound as though she would blackmail him if she could, that she wants something badly enough to blackmail him for. It is not how she wants to sound, even if it is the truth. “What would I even want from you, anyway?”

Liam’s jaw sets, and his head tilts condescendingly. “You want me to marry Miss Tomlinson.”

Harriet falls into the nearest chair, too shocked to find her voice. She didn’t realise how much it would upset her to actually hear someone _else_ suggest that Louise could belong to anyone besides her. She sticks her tongue out in disgust, grimacing, “That’s repulsive.” Then, remembering herself, she amends, “Well, actually, yes, but—”

After taking his own seat and clearing his throat, Liam looks out the window again. “Perhaps it’s treasonous, but I often take comfort in the words of the American, Thomas Jefferson. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men and women are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty—,'” here, Liam pauses, looking at Harriet from the corner of his eye, “‘and the pursuit of happiness.’”

Harriet has to turn her thoughts over again and again in the silence before she derives any meaning from this speech, aside from worrying for her brother’s health. “Are you suggesting—,” Harriet starts, though she can’t find the words to finish her question.

“You have the right to be Miss Tomlinson’s, erm, sister.”

_Louise’s sister_. Oh, how awful Harriet feels for making such a simple, inferior wish so many times. She has to make sure that Liam knows that’s not what she wants. “Well,” she clears her throat, feeling a blush heat up her face. “The funny thing about that—"

Liam lifts a hand in a gentle silencing gesture. “I really _don’t_ want to know, please. Spare me,” he says, and Harriet can see his cheeks are flushed red as well. She has never been so grateful for Liam’s unwillingness to discuss private manners with his sister.

It all strikes her at once. Liam _knows_. Liam knows why she wants him to marry Louise. _Liam might actually be willing_.

Harriet and Louise might get to have every happiness they have hardly dared to hope for, a life together. Under the same roof, with no secrets—well, surely with many secrets, but—oh, they could solve all those problems later on.

She feels tears gathering at her eyes, threatening to burst. “You would—” She tries to ask if he would actually do such a generous thing for her, to protect her right to pursue happiness, but she can’t force the words from her throat, can’t bring herself to put her fate in the hands of someone who might well say _no_ and crush her hopes.

“I, erm—well, what I mean to say, I could go speak with her father tomorrow, if you ask me to. I’m leaving again for Bradford on Friday.”

“Oh, _Liam_.” Harriet is barely holding back her tears now, imagining Louise’s face when she asks permission to send Liam on this quest—how she’ll scoff at first and hide her joy behind a smirk, eventually melting into Harriet’s arms and never leaving.

“Just know that whenever you have me do it,” he goes on, stilted and awkward, “she shouldn’t sleep here, after that. Until, well, after the wedding. And then—well, you can—well.”

Harriet hides her face in her hands, trying to immediately forget the knowledge that Liam could even suspect such a thing. “Right,” she says, her overwhelming feelings suddenly swept over by a blank practicality. In this numb state, she’s able to more clearly see the whole picture. “Liam,” she says softly, resisting the urge to go embrace him in gratitude until she’s certain. “What of your own happiness?”

Liam clears his throat again, rises to his feet. “What makes you think there’s no happiness in being a good brother?”

Harriet is embracing him tightly around the shoulders before she even realises it and is soon fighting back tears yet again.

Liam holds her tightly, albeit a bit awkwardly. Harriet has a whole lifetime of making her brother uncomfortable to look forward to. Harriet has a whole lifetime with Louise to look forward to—if she can convince her to go along with this plan.

“And besides,” Liam adds, clapping a hand across her back. “I do value my trips to Bradford.”

Harriet has a sneaking suspicion that there’s more to these trips to Bradford than she’s aware of, and she would rather keep it that way. If his aim was to get her to break off their embrace, it works. She practically skips to the door of the room, eager to return to Louise and find out if she should ask Liam to follow through on his promise.

Only one thing stops her from thanking Liam and leaving him to his books. She pauses with a hand on the door and turns back to him. “How did you know?” she asks, counting on him to know that she means _How did you know what I wanted? How did you know what has changed between me and Louise?_

Liam crosses his arms across his chest. “Captain Jungwirth came here to ask me if I knew of any local man named Harry, which, of course, I did not. He said that this Harry fellow was his only rival for Miss Tomlinson’s affections, and that there was some question of Miss Tomlinson’s honour. I quickly put two and two together, I suppose, recalling her nickname for you. And, ah—”

“And what?”

“Well, your room is next to mine, and, well, I had to sleep with a pillow over my head last night.”

He looks moments away from bursting into laughter at Harriet’s expense, and as glad as she is that he is not so repulsed by the idea that he can’t laugh about it, she has no reason to stand for it right now, not when Louise is waiting for her in the other room.

She heads down the hallway to the drawing room, laughing when it occurs to her that she’s grateful for Captain Jungwirth for preventing her from having to explain _everything_ to her brother. 

~~~

Harriet proposes the marriage to Louise in the garden, after suggesting an afternoon stroll in the mild sunshine and working up the courage whilst twisting three strands of lavender into Louise’s soft hair.

Louise scoffs, then laughs, and then cries before laughing again.

A jay whose feathers are the same colour as Louise’s eyes lands on a nearby post and announces his congratulations. 

Louise insists on hearing with her own ears Liam’s assurance that it won’t be too great an imposition. With cheeks sore from smiling, Harriet watches her extract multiple repeated promises that there will be absolutely no touching involved, ever. Of course, once she has those promises, Louise runs up to embrace him in a very sibling-like way. It’s funny, Harriet thinks, that her brother and Louise will be like siblings, while she and Louise will be like husband and wife, though no one will be the wiser, and history will certainly not remember.

Since Liam plans to visit Mr. Tomlinson in the morning, Harriet convinces Louise to stay one more night, and then to retire early, and then to lie flat on her back while Harriet tastes every part of her that she can possibly fit her mouth over.

Harriet’s a greedy lover, though—or so she is told as she sucks hungrily where Louise’s scent is strongest, flooding her mouth with desperation and her heart with want. But the way Louise bucks under the pressure and fills her mouth even further and squeezes tightly around her puckered fingers suggests that Harriet’s greed can’t be such a bad thing after all.

Once the violent rolling of Louise’s hips quiets to a gentle pulse, she rises up to find Harriet’s mouth with her own. Harriet rather likes tasting her even while kissing her mouth. She smiles helplessly into the kiss, impossibly content.

When Louise slithers like a snake down the edge of the bed and onto the floor, Harriet doesn’t know what to expect, but she parts her legs all the same.

“Harry,” Louise announces as she slides folds and folds of material up Harriet’s leg with strong, careful hands that feel cool to Harriet’s feverish skin. “Would you do me the honour,” she continues, and it’s only now that Harriet notices she’s kneeling on one knee, like a chivalrous knight from an old story. Louise’s mouth breaks into a wet smile, and Harriet feels moments away from bursting into a million stars with how happy Louise’s smile makes her. “Of being mine until the end of our years?”

“If you will kiss me every day, then I shall,” Harriet whispers, wiping tears from her eyes for what must be the hundredth time that day.

Louise kisses the inside of her knee, sending shivers up the length of Harriet’s body as she counters, “If you will tell me every thought that passes through your head, then I shall kiss you every day.”

Harriet reaches to pull the last remaining strand of lavender from Louise’s hair, cups it in her hand, and twirls her fingers in the chain around Louise’s neck. She laughs, and no laughter has ever felt so sweet. “If you will promise to let me take care of you even when you’re old and grey, then I shall tell you every thought that passes through my silly head.”

Louise takes her hand and kisses the top of it, furling her own hand around Harriet’s fingers, and the lavender, and the pearl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after! [Fic post is here](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/post/614412424628617217/harriet-and-louise-by-blake-30k-e-ff)


End file.
